McNally's Alibi Page 19

  “Harrigan,” I said, without a moment’s hesitation. “He’s the novice of the team and the easiest to be duped by the other two. Also, I don’t think he has the smarts or the nerve to lie to the police and keep his cool. The other two could walk away from a third-degree grilling with dry foreheads. Harrigan contacted me because he wanted information. I think he was genuinely surprised to learn I never delivered the money to Lester and even more shocked to hear about Swensen’s death.

  “I say this knowing his story is flawed. Why would Whitehead agree to a three-way split when he was getting half from Swensen?”

  Father shook his head. “It seems to me, Archy, all three are malefactors and congenital liars, yet you credit or discredit each of their statements based on the testimony of the other two libelers. Because Whitehead told you he was getting half from Swensen is not proof that he had struck such an agreement with the murdered man. The only fact I conclude from your evidence is that all three are intent upon making the other two look like rotters.”

  Everyone is familiar with Murphy’s law, which, incidentally, Mr. Murphy borrowed from the mathematics genius, Pythagoras, who observed a few thousand years ago that “anything which can happen can happen to you.” But a lesser-known, and perhaps original, Murphy edict is the Law of Forgiveness, which asserts that one can be forgiven if wrong, but never if right—and Prescott McNally was right. ’Nuff said?

  “I take it,” my learned colleague was saying, “that you have severed your ties with Claudia Lester and have now been engaged by Decimus Fortesque to retrieve that confounded manuscript or his money. Correct?”

  “That is correct, sir.”

  “And just how do you intend to do that, Archy?”

  “I have no idea, sir.”

  “Nonsense,” father insisted, slipping out of idle and going into high gear. “The only way you can learn what became of the manuscript or Fortesque’s money is by solving the murder of Lawrence Swensen, a job better left to the police.”

  I jumped on that like a cowboy mounting a bucking bronco. “As you hoped, sir, I am cooperating with the police.”

  “Over cocktails and dinner?”

  From the mail boy to the secretary to the CEO. So much for my stint at the rodeo. “I will admit to mixing business with pleasure. We did discuss the case.”

  Father sighed as if he were much put upon. “You know, Archy, I never interfere in your personal life, and I have no intention of starting now.”

  That declaration is always followed by the word however, and it came right on cue.

  “However, I think it was imprudent for you and this policewoman to be seen carrying on in public while you are both involved in a murder investigation.”

  “In all fairness to Officer O’Hara, sir, the dinner meeting was at my suggestion. Remember, I was a possible suspect. I wanted to sit down with her to clear myself as well as offer my help.”

  “Granted,” he said, “but I wish you would have chosen a more appropriate venue for the conference. When and if this goes to trial, a defense attorney could make much of such a meeting to the detriment of the prosecution. Officer O’Hara should be aware of that.”

  This was true, if rather far-fetched and not like father. I had collaborated with the police before this, especially with Al Rogoff, and father had never opposed the stratagem. Based on this and my refusal to act covertly with my boss and kin, I told father that I was meeting yet again with Officer O’Hara this evening, and this time in her home.

  My candor was rewarded with an appreciative nod. “I assume the relationship has taken on a more personal aspect.”

  Not retreating, I answered, “I hope that is the case.”

  He gave that some thought before changing the subject or, better put, taking a different route to where this was leading. He told me mother, too, had read the newspaper account of the murder and my attack in the parking lot. “She’s worried, Archy, which aggravates her condition.”

  I would forsake everything dear to keep mother healthy and happy, which was not a secret in the McNally household. Not having to defend my position, I simply sidestepped the issue. “I will talk to her, sir. I have before, and it helps.”

  “I’m sure it will,” he said, “but what would please her most, and myself, is to see you settle down. We have long thought that you and Connie—”

  “We were never formally engaged, sir,” I cut in, none too gently, “and at the present, as we all know, Connie is seeing another man.”

  “Then perhaps you should be more demonstrative,” he advised.

  Father had never sat me down to discuss the birds and the bees, and I hoped he wasn’t going to now. In truth, I found this conversation rather embarrassing and was certain that he was doing it only because mother had asked him to. It was surely as disconcerting to him as it was to me. Perhaps even more so.

  The thought only made me feel worse. Would I ever know a love even approaching my father’s for my mother? Did I want to know such a love? As if in answer to my thoughts, I heard myself say, “Right now, sir, I don’t know that I want to be more demonstrative.”

  “I don’t mean to meddle, Archy.”

  “I’m sure you don’t, sir.” Not being a C. B. DeMille, I couldn’t shout “Cut” and have done with this painful scene, so I did the next-best thing and asked, “Now, would you like to hear what Tyler Beaumont had to say?”

  With evident relief, he answered, “That’s why I wanted to see you.”

  Really? You could have fooled me.

  After relaying Tyler’s bizarre tale, father looked as if segueing from my love life to Tyler Beaumont’s fantasy life was akin to leaping from the ludicrous to the preposterous. “It’s hard to believe Lolly’s assertion,” father said. “I chatted with the boy over a cup of tea, and he sounded perfectly normal. In fact, I thought he was rather charming.”

  “That he is,” I acquiesced, “and perfectly lucid. What he has to say is the problematic part of the equation.”

  “Is Lolly a reliable source on this matter?”

  “When it comes to high society, Lolly is a walking encyclopedia. Trust me on that, sir. I’ve engaged Binky to keep a sporadic watch. I may also mention it to Al Rogoff, as he was the catalyst of this inanity. I refuse to ignore Tyler’s request with a wink and a nod.”

  Father liked that, as I was sure he would. “I wonder if we should contact his family?” he said.

  “That would be a betrayal of his confidence and against my ethics. If they’re concerned, I’m sure they’ll find him. He has friends here who seem to be in touch with his people.”

  “Very good, Archy.” Father made a display of removing the newspapers from his desk, indicating our meeting was over. “You will keep me posted.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “On the Fortesque case, too,” he quickly put in.

  I stood up to leave. “I may have a breakthrough to report on that sooner than expected.”

  “You sound more optimistic than you did when you came in.”

  “If I am, it’s because of our talk.” I stopped at the door and turned to face him. “Nothing you said went unheeded, sir.”

  18

  I KNEW I WOULD find mother in the sitting room of the guest suite, the one she had so generously offered me should I take a bride. The room contained a chaise longue of royal proportions, upon which mother enjoyed taking a siesta in the late afternoon, before dressing for the cocktail hour with father.

  She slept so lightly, her eyes opened the moment she heard the door creak. “Don’t get up,” I said, pulling a chair beside her. “I just wanted to visit for a few minutes before going out.”

  Her florid complexion and blue eyes made one think of an old-fashioned daguerrotype that had been hand-painted to produce an ersatz Technicolor print. “Out again?” she complained. “It’s been so long since you’ve dined with us, Archy. I miss your company.”

  Like a halfback who sees an opening, I ran with me ball. “If I married, you would s
ee even less of me.”

  Looking guilty, and more flushed than ever, she said, “But I wouldn’t have to worry about you getting hit on the head in parking lots late at night.”

  This, of course, intimated that when married I would sit by the fire evenings with my pipe and slippers, never venturing out after dark without the little lady to protect me from myself. For many mothers, getting a son wed is like retiring from duty and transferring her charge into the hands of a younger, more ardent caretaker.

  “You’ve been reading the newspapers and listening to Ursi’s account of the incident. You know how both tend to exaggerate. It was hardly a life-threatening blow, and it could happen to anyone, anyplace, anytime. In fact, Mrs. McNally, it’s a proven fact that more married men are hit on the head with rolling pins than single men.”

  This got more of a laugh than it deserved, but that’s one of the perks of having a fan club. “What an exciting case,” she whispered as if it were a family secret. “Decimus Fortesque, Truman Capote and all those people chasing after the lost manuscript. It’s a pity about the man who owned it, but then, he didn’t act very honorably himself.”

  I said I enjoyed a case that got a lot of fanfare but one of the drawbacks of notoriety was that people tended to ask questions and offer advice. More of a problem in our home was that mother would learn the more sordid aspects of my occupation and fret over them. Father and I tended to avoid the topic in toto or, when cornered, make light of it, which I now did.

  “I’m a little forgetful, Archy, and even a little dotty at times, but I don’t have to be protected, like a maiden aunt, from the facts of life,” she said, quickly adding, “however I do appreciate the gesture.”

  I took her hand. It was warm and slightly moist. “Humor the men in your life and stick to your begonias. Now I have to go.”

  She refused to relinquish my grip. “Ursi told me you’re seeing the Beaumont boy. Is the family coming back to Palm Beach?”

  Here I drew the line on discussing cases with mother. Ghosts on top of murder could prove a noxious mix, and when her mind wandered, as it sometimes did, there’s no telling what demons might pop out of the wainscoting. “He’s here to see friends and check on the house. Nothing more.”

  “Then why does he want to see you?”

  Madelaine McNally, even in her golden years, was no fool. The thought was heartening. “A personal matter not meant for the ears of a spinster aunt,” I replied.

  The only subject in our abode more taboo than murder is sex. With a flutter of her free hand she withdrew the question, but I imagined she would press father on the subject. The poor squire—this was not his day for inquisitions.

  Proving thoughts have wings, mother then asked, “Are you seeing Connie tonight?”

  “No, ma’am. In fact, I am seeing a police officer, so I will be in protective custody all evening.”

  “Sergeant Rogoff?” she asked.

  “No, mother. Lieutenant O’Hara. Georgia O’Hara, in fact. She’s a policewoman.”

  “Is this in regards to your case?” she questioned hopefully.

  “Ask father. He will tell you all about it.”

  This led to “You had a talk with father?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m sure he will tell you all about that, too.”

  “You’re mad at me for butting in.”

  Playing for sympathy, she could draw tears from the dress circle to the last row of the balcony. I raised the hand I was holding and kissed it. “I’m flattered that you care enough to pry, but right now I need some elbow room. You see, mother, I don’t know what I want or, for that matter, who wants me.”

  She squeezed my hand and, spoken like a troth, affirmed, “We want you, Archy. We always have and we always will.”

  I went into the kitchen to grab a cold drink and discovered a pitcher of fresh-brewed iced tea in the fridge. Ursi knows I’m partial to lemon lift, and I was not disappointed. Ursi clicked off the small telly that keeps her company most of the day and turned to me for a live update. “Have you seen the Beaumont boy?” was first on the agenda. “What does he want? It’s about that item in the paper, isn’t it, Archy? They say he’s staying at the Colony. Everyone wants him for dinner.”

  That last item was disquietingly cannibalistic, but I ignored it as I filled a glass with ice and poured tea atop the cubes, then added a chubby wedge of fresh lemon. Tyler Beaumont’s visit was the talk of the town because of my big mouth and Ursi’s chronic telephonitis. I know I asked for it, but now I regretted it. More tears over answered prayers? I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the ice-cold glass in my hand.

  I told Ursi the same thing I had told Lolly Spindrift, giving her a chance to air it before Lolly could print it.

  “Did you read the manuscript?” was next on Ursi’s agenda.

  I told her I had not and remembered to say I would be dining out this evening.

  Acknowledging this with a nod, Ursi continued her newscast. “Mrs. Marsden tells me that Lady Cynthia is beside herself with worry. She is sure the Capote book contains an entire chapter on her life before she became a Lady.”

  Not seeing the capital L, a listener could make much of that statement. Mrs. Marsden was Lady Cynthia Horowitz’s housekeeper and Ursi’s dearest pal. Lady Cynthia had had many husbands in her long life, all of them parting with millions to get rid of her, except the last one, who fell out of a tree and died, leaving her only a title.

  I’m sure that her life was rife with scandal; however, her belief that Capote would honor her with even a footnote was wishful thinking. There are far too many more important people who have made fools of themselves for our Lady Cynthia to be noticed, but the rumor, self-started, would go a long way in giving the agile septuagenarian and hostess a certain cachet.

  I escaped from the kitchen and ran upstairs to change into my swimming togs. I would just have time for my aquatic ritual before eventide. In late September the days grow noticeably shorter, but as a wise old owl has noted, the shorter the day, the longer the night.

  After a bracing swim followed by a quick shower, I wrapped myself in a towel and debated whether or not to have a cigarette. I had already given up my after-dinner smoke for the one I enjoyed when Georgy girl called. If I had one now, I would have to surrender the one I could have before I lay me down to sleep. Not knowing what shape I would be in when I returned to my aerie, I thought it best to keep the option of having a late-night smoke wide open. The ability to procrastinate encouraged me to believe that I may still tick the habit in my lifetime.

  Kings, presidents and generals are often called upon to make decisions, but none could be as daunting as what to wear when invited to dine in a gingerbread cottage with a policewoman. It was truly unprecedented. Flannel seemed too formal, denim too casual, seersucker too summery and sharkskin too mafioso, given the nature of my date’s line of work.

  After much soul-searching, I went for a pair of linen trousers in a gray I believe is called mouse and a fuchsia pima cotton polo, and topped it all off with a lightweight wool blazer in an inky black. Rather natty, I thought, as I slipped my size-eleven hoofs into a pair of Belgian loafers.

  Not wishing to raid father’s wine cellar, I stopped to purchase my obligatory offerings on the drive north. A red Rhônes, a White Burgundy and, feeling patriotic, I tossed in a bottle of New York state rosé. Going up the drive, I got the fish eye from the landlady and gave a friendly beep, which rattled her beaded curtain. I parked next to Georgy’s Subaru and made my way up the path leading to her front door.

  She was in a pair of black slacks, a white sweatshirt and an apron. Shod in sandals, I learned she painted her toenails a bright red. Her hair was pulled back and tied with a shiny blue ribbon. In a word, she looked adorable.

  “I never know if I should serve the wine I bought for dinner or the one the guest brings,” she said, taking the package from me.

  “I’ll answer that when I see what you’re pouring. Good evening, Georgy. You look ravish
ing.”

  “Thanks. You look like an ad for pipe tobacco. English briar, actually.” Vanishing behind a paneled folding screen that had been set up to hide the galley kitchen, she went on, “Take off the jacket and relax. I hope that shirt isn’t fuchsia.”

  “It is,” I called back.

  “Then take it off, too,” she pleaded.

  “That comes later, dear, in the bedroom.”

  “Fat chance, buster.” She emerged from the kitchen. “What would you like to drink?”

  “What do you have?”

  “What you see is what you get,” she said, pointing to a small sideboard in the breakfast nook where a bar had been set up.

  What I saw was vodka, scotch and rye. All unopened. She had gone out and bought them especially for tonight’s dinner. Georgy girl was being very accommodating and Archy was in a dither. I have always approached a new romantic liaison with the confidence of a traveler holding a round-trip ticket, but as I boarded this one I didn’t know if I wanted to return to from whence I came.

  For mixers there was tonic, club soda, ginger ale and ice water. No Coke, so Cuba Libres, and all they implied, were impossible. In such predicaments one is thankful for small favors. “What can I get you?” I politely asked.

  “Whatever you’re having.”

  “You are a trusting soul,” I said, deciding on vodka and tonic. No need to ask if she preferred lemon or lime, because neither was in the offering. As I poured, I noticed the table had been set with care. The silver was stainless steel, the plates delftware with a blue print glaze and the wineglasses perfect for a small aperitif. Lest I seem unkind, I must add that the napkins were in bone rings and a posy of flowers in a crystal vase stood in the center of the table. It was frightfully like the newlyweds’ first night home after the honeymoon—but I get ahead of myself.

  She popped out from behind the screen saying, “When Joey traded all this for a gilded cage with an ocean view he took our one bottle of booze and I never bothered replacing it. I like beer.”