McNally's Secret Read online

  I put all these heavy ruminations in a mental deep six and resolutely turned to making suitable entries in my daily journal. To accomplish this, I was forced to don reading glasses. Yes, at the tender age of thirty-six-plus, the peepers had shown evidence of bagging at the knees, and I needed the hornrimmed cheaters for close-up work. Naturally I never wore them in public. One doesn’t wish to wobble about resembling a nuclear physicist, does one?

  I made notes regarding the recovery of the Clarence T. Frobisher letters. Then I jotted down what little I had learned from my father regarding the claimed theft of the Inverted Jenny stamps from the wall safe in the bedroom of Lady Cynthia Horowitz. I scrawled a reminder to phone Horowitz and set up an early appointment.

  Then, staring at my diary, I made a final note that amazed me. It read as follows:

  “Jennifer Towley!!!”

  Chapter 2

  I OVERSLEPT AND BY the time I trooped downstairs my father had already left for the office (we usually drove in together), and my mother was pottering about in the potting shed, which seemed logical. I learned all this from Olson, our houseman, who was seated in the kitchen smoking a pipe and working on a mug of black coffee to which he may or may not have added a dram of aquavit. He also told me his wife, Ursi, had taken the station wagon to seek fresh grouper for our dinner that night.

  You would think, wouldn’t you, that a man with the red corpuscles of the Vikings dancing through his veins would have a given name of Lars or Sven. But Olson’s first name was Jamie, and it was not a diminutive of James; it was just Jamie. He was a wrinkled codger, about my father’s age, and he and his wife had been with us as long as I could remember. They were childless and both seemed content to go on working at the Chez McNally for as long as they could get out of bed in the morning.

  “Eggs?” he asked.

  I shook my head. “Rye toast and coffee. I’m dieting.”

  He set to work in that slow, deliberate way of his. Both the Olsons were good chefs—good, not great—but neither would ever qualify for a fast-food joint. They didn’t dawdle, they were just unbrisk.

  “Jamie,” I said, “do you know Kenneth? He drives for Lady Horowitz.”

  “I know him.”

  “What’s his last name?”

  “Bodin.”

  “What kind of a guy is he?”

  “Big.”

  I sighed. Getting information from Olson isn’t difficult, but it takes time.

  “How long has he been with Horowitz—do you know?”

  He paused a moment to think. “Mebbe five, six years.”

  “That sounds about right,” I said. “A few years ago there was talk going around that he was more than just her chauffeur. You hear anything about that?”

  “Uh-huh,” Jamie said. He brought my breakfast and poured himself more coffee.

  “You think there was anything to it?” I persisted.

  “Mebbe was,” he said. “Then. Not now.”

  His taciturnity didn’t fool me; he enjoyed gossip as much as I did.

  You must understand that Palm Beach is a gossiper’s paradise. It is, in fact, the Gossip Capital of the World. In Palm Beach everyone gossips eagerly and constantly. I mean we relish it.

  “Is this Kenneth Bodin married?” I pressed on, slathering my toast with the mango jelly Jamie had thoughtfully set out.

  “Nope.”

  “Girlfriend?”

  “Mebbe.”

  “Anyone I might know?”

  He slowly removed his cold pipe from his dentures and regarded me gravely. “She gives massages,” he said.

  “No kidding?” I said, interested. “Well, at the moment I’m not acquainted with any masseuses. She work in West Palm Beach?”

  “Did,” Olson said. “Till the cops closed her down.”

  “And what is she doing now?”

  He was still staring at me. “This and that,” he said.

  “All right,” I said hurriedly, “I get the picture. Ask around, will you, and see if you can find out her name and address.”

  He nodded.

  I finished my breakfast and went into my father’s study to use his directory and phone. The old man puts covers on his telephone directories. Other people do that, of course, but most use clear plastic. My father bound his directories in genuine leather. I mention this merely to illustrate how meticulous he was in his pursuit of gentility.

  I looked up the number of Lady Cynthia Horowitz and dialed. Got the housekeeper, identified myself, and asked to speak to the mistress. Instead, as I knew would happen, I was shunted to Consuela Garcia. She was Lady Cynthia’s social secretary and general factotum.

  I knew Consuela, who had come over from Havana during the Mariel boatlift. A few years previously she and I had a mad, passionate romance that lasted all of three weeks. Then she discovered that when it comes to wedding bells I am tone-deaf, and she gave me the broom. Fair enough. But we were still friends, I thought, although now when we met at parties and dances, we shook hands instead of sharing a smooch.

  “Archy,” she said, “how nice to hear from you.”

  “How are you, Connie?”

  “Very well, thank you.”

  “I saw you out at Wellington last Saturday,” I told her. “That was a very handsome lad you were with. Is he new?”

  “Not really,” she said, laughing. “He’s been used. What can I do for you, Archy?”

  “An audience with Lady C. Half-hour, an hour at the most.”

  “What’s it about?”

  “Charity subscription,” I said, not knowing if Horowitz had told her of the disappearance of the Inverted Jennies. “We’ve simply got to do something to save the hard-nosed gerbils.”

  “The what?”

  “Hard-nosed gerbils. Delightful little beasties, but they’re dwindling, Connie, definitely dwindling.”

  “I don’t know,” she said doubtfully. “Everyone’s been hitting on her lately to help save something or other.”

  “Give it a try,” I urged.

  She came back on the phone a few moments later. “If you can come over immediately,” she said, sounding surprised, “Lady Cynthia will see you.”

  “Thank you, Connie,” I said humbly. I can do humble.

  The Miata is not a car whose door you open to enter. As with the old MG, you vault into the driver’s seat as if you were mounting a charger. So I vaulted and headed northward on A1A. Lady Horowitz’s estate was just up the road a piece, as they say in Florida, and traffic was mercifully light, so I could let my charger gallop.

  As I drove I mentally reviewed what I knew about the woman I was about to interview.

  Her full name was Lady Cynthia Kirschner Gomez Stanescu Smythe DuPey Horowitz. If she was not a clear winner in the Palm Beach marital sweepstakes, she was certainly one of the contenders. Around her swimming pool, in addition to Old Glory, she flew the six flags of her ex-husbands’ native lands. Everyone said it was a sweet touch; the divorce settlements had left her a very wealthy woman indeed.

  She had won her title from her last husband, Leopold Horowitz, who had been knighted for a lifetime of research on the mating habits of flying beetles. Unfortunately, a year after being honored, he had fallen to his death from a very tall tree in the Amazon while trying to net a pair of the elusive critters in flagrante delicto. His bereaved widow immediately flew to Paris to purchase a black dress (with pouffe) from Christian Lacroix.

  Long before I met Lady Cynthia I had heard many people speak of her as a “great beauty.” But when I was finally introduced, it was difficult to conceal my shock. It would be ungentlemanly to call a woman ugly. I shall say only that I found her excessively plain.

  While not a crone, exactly, she had a long nose with a droopy tip and a narrow chin that jutted upward. Drooping nose and jutting chin did not touch, of course, but I had this dream that you might clamp a silver dollar vertically between nose and chin tips and, by flicking it with your forefinger, set it a-twirling. I could not understa
nd how old age could so ravage the features of a “great beauty.”

  “Why, she must be over eighty,” I remarked to my father.

  “Nonsense,” he said, rather stiffly. “She’s a year younger than I.”

  I still could not comprehend the “great beauty” legend or how she had been able to snare so many husbands. The mystery was solved when a national tabloid (published in nearby Lantana, incidentally) printed a sensationalized article on Lady Cynthia and her myriad marriages and extracurricular affairs. The article was, as they say, profusely illustrated, and it provided the reason for her allure.

  She had been born Cynthia DiLuca in Chicago, daughter of a butcher, and even at an early age it was observed that she had a face that would stop a Timex. But to make up for this, she was blessed with a body so voluptuous that her first published nude photos made every geezer in the world snap his braces.

  During the 1940s and 1950s she posed for many photographers and artists. Her face was usually turned away, masked in shadow, or concealed beneath a gauze scarf. One photographer even went so far as to graft a more attractive feminine head onto Cynthia’s body, but viewers weren’t deceived; her figure was as unique, universally recognized, and dearly beloved as a Coca-Cola bottle. Even the immortal Picasso painted her portrait, converting her divine form into a stack of shingles that was much admired.

  Now, at the age of seventy-plus, she apparently retained the body that had electrified the world fifty years ago. She also retained more spleen than anyone, woman or man, had a right to possess. Her temper tantrums were legendary. She was notorious for a long list of peeves that included cigars, dogs, and men who wore pinky rings. But tops on her roster of grievances were air conditioning and direct sunlight—which made it difficult to understand why she had decided to spend her remaining years in South Florida.

  All in all, she had the reputation of being a nasty old lady, short-tempered and, when provoked, foul-mouthed. But she was tolerated, even treasured, by Palm Beach society as a genuine “character.” Part of her popularity was due to her generosity. She held wondrous parties and galas, and few rejected her invitations, mostly because they knew that one of the things she found unacceptable was dining at other people’s homes or in public restaurants, and her guests would not be expected to return her hospitality.

  She had an excellent reason for reclusive dining: She employed the best French chef in South Florida.

  Having said all this, I must also add that Lady Cynthia Horowitz had never treated the McNally Family with anything less than charming civility. My mother, father, and I had dined with her privately several times, and she couldn’t have been a more gracious hostess and fascinating raconteuse over postprandial brandies. You figure it out.

  Her home looked like an antebellum southern plantation: Tara transplanted to Florida’s Gold Coast. The only anachronisms in this idyllic scene were the high wall of coral blocks topped with razor wire surrounding the estate and a large patio and swimming pool area at the rear of the main house.

  It was to poolside that the black housekeeper conducted me, and I was happy to see the ex-husbands’ flags snapping merrily in the breeze. Lady C. was reclining on a chaise lounge in the shade of an umbrella table. Not only was she lying in the shade, but she was swaddled in a voluminous white flannel robe, wore white socks to protect feet and ankles, and long white gloves to shield wrists and hands from that old devil sun. And, of course, she wore a wide-brimmed panama straw hat that provided even deeper shadow for her face and neck.

  There were two phones, cordless and cellular, in view as I approached. Horowitz was using the cellular and waved me to a nearby canvas director’s chair while she continued her conversation. I could not help but overhear.

  “No, no, and no,” she was saying wrathfully. “Just forget it. I don’t want to hear another word about it. Listen, sweetie, if I thought it was humanly possible, I’d tell you to go fuck yourself. Am I coming through loud and clear?”

  She hung up and glared angrily at me through green-tinted sunglasses. “Have you met Mercedes Blair?” she demanded.

  “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure,” I said.

  “Believe me, lad,” she said bitterly, “it’s no pleasure. That woman is one of the great bubbleheads of Palm Beach. The last time I was in Cairo, I bought this absolutely divine ivory dildo. After I got back I made the mistake of showing it to Mercedes, not knowing she’s one of these save-the-elephant people. Well, she turned positively livid, and ever since she’s been busting my chops. She wants me to throw it away! Can you imagine? I just can’t get it through her tiny, tiny brain that the elephant croaked centuries ago. That ivory dildo is ancient Egyptian, a beautiful antique, and besides, it’s quite useful. But she keeps insisting I get rid of it. I’ll never speak to that stupe again as long as I live.”

  Years ago I had come to the conclusion that life is strange. I decided then that the only way to hang on to one’s sanity with a sweaty grasp is to acknowledge the incomprehensibility of life. Accept all—and just nod knowingly.

  So I listened to this tale of the ivory dildo, nodded knowingly, and made sympathetic noises. Lady Cynthia finished her tirade, leaned down to pick up a tumbler alongside her chaise. It contained what I guessed to be her first gin-and-bitters of the day. She took a sip and visibly relaxed.

  “Want a drink, lad?” she asked pleasantly.

  “Not at the moment, thank you.”

  “That jazz you gave Connie about the hard-nosed gerbils—that was all bullshit. Right?”

  “Right,” I said.

  “And you want to ask about my missing stamps. Prescott said you’d be looking into it. Ask away.”

  “Who knows about the disappearance of the Inverted Jennies?”

  “Me, your father, you.”

  “You haven’t told Consuela or anyone else on your staff?”

  She shook her head. “Maybe one of them pinched the stamps,” she said darkly.

  “Maybe,” I said. “Let’s see... in addition to Connie, you’ve got a butler, housekeeper, two maids, chef, and chauffeur. Right?”

  “Wrong,” she said. “The butler and one of the maids quit about two weeks ago. Claimed they couldn’t stand the summer in Florida. Idiots!”

  “So that leaves a staff of five,” I said. “Anyone else staying in the house?”

  “My son Harry Smythe and his wife, Doris. Also my son Alan DuPey and his bride, Felice. They’ve only been married a month. And my daughter, Gina Stanescu. Also Angus Wolfson, an old friend. He’s down from Boston for a couple of weeks. He’s gay—but so what?”

  “A full house,” I commented. “They were all here when the stamps disappeared?”

  She nodded.

  “Who knew the combination to the wall safe besides you?”

  “No one. But that doesn’t matter. I never locked it.”

  I looked at her and sighed. “I’ll have that drink now, please,” I said, figuring the sun had to be over the yardarm somewhere in the world.

  “Of course. What?”

  “Vodka and tonic will do me fine.”

  She used the cordless phone to call her kitchen and order up my drink.

  “Lady Cynthia,” I said, “why didn’t you lock your wall safe?”

  “I couldn’t be bothered,” she said. “That stupid combination—I kept forgetting it and had to rummage through my desk to find it. Besides, I trusted people.”

  I didn’t make the obvious reply to that. We waited in silence until the housekeeper, Mrs. Marsden, a motherly type, brought my drink. It had a thick slice of fresh lime—just the way I like it.

  After the housekeeper departed, I said, “I don’t mean to get picky about this, but if you couldn’t remember the combination to your safe, isn’t it possible you forgot where you put the stamps?”

  She shook her head. “They weren’t just in an envelope or anything like that. They were between clear plastic pages in a little book about the size of a diary. A thin book bound in red leat
her specially made to hold the Inverted Jennies. It’s not something you’d easily misplace. Also, I’ve torn the house apart looking for it. It’s just gone.”

  “Would you object if I asked how you came into possession of those stamps in the first place?”

  “No,” she said, “I wouldn’t object. Go ahead and ask.”

  I laughed. “Lady Cynthia, you’re pulling my leg.”

  “I’d love to, lad,” she said, leering like Groucho Marx, “but people might talk. I received those silly upside-down stamps as part of my divorce settlement from my first husband, Max Kirschner. Dear old Max. He loved to wear my lingerie, but he really knew how to manage a bank. He bought the stamps in Trieste. I think he paid ten thousand American for the block of four. But of course that was years and years ago.”

  “Was he a stamp collector?”

  “No, he just liked to own rare things. Like me.”

  I wasn’t making great progress—perhaps because she seemed to be treating her loss so lightly. But that was her way—the dictum of haut monde: Never complain and never explain.

  “All right,” I said, “if the stamps weren’t misplaced, let’s assume they were nicked. Anyone in particular you suspect might have sticky fingers?”

  The question troubled her. “I’d hate to think it was one of my staff. They’ve all been with me for years.”

  “But you said the butler and one of the maids quit. Was this before the stamps disappeared or after you became aware they were missing?”

  She thought about that a moment. “No, the stamps were still here after the butler and maid left. I remember now: They quit, and the next day Alan DuPey showed up with his bride. Felice had never seen the stamps, so that night at dinner I brought them down to show her. Then, after dinner, I took them back upstairs and put them in the wall safe. That was the last time I saw them.”

  “Any signs around the house of a break-in? Jimmied doors or broken windows—anything like that?”