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  Disappointed that Kate Mulligan was not a new stew we might be having for dinner, I asked, “When is she expected, Ursi?”

  “Momentarily. I’m to send her directly to the greenhouse to meet with Mrs. McNally.”

  Which was just where I was headed. Outdoors my spirits were immediately lifted by a perfectly smashing day. Warm sun, cloudless blue sky and an exhilarating sea breeze that was as welcoming as a kiss. Mother smiled when she saw me approach. “How splendid you look, Archy,” she exclaimed.

  How nice that she should notice, as I was wearing one of my favorite outfits. Fawn silk slacks, a plum-colored Sea Island cotton knit shirt, a dark green linen sport coat and Cordovan loafers, sans socks. I kissed her rosy cheek in gratitude as she told me the plant she was administering to with TLC was called an Eyelash begonia. At last count, mother had six million varieties of begonias. Could this Eyelash be six million and one?

  “Mother, do you remember the actor Turhan Bey?”

  “Oh, yes, Archy. He was so good in The Rains of Ranchipur.”

  “No, Mother, that was Richard Burton beneath a thick layer of pancake makeup.”

  “Are you sure, dear?”

  “Yes, Mother. Turhan Bey’s big move was Dragon Seed.”

  “It wasn’t Dragonwyck?”

  “No, Mother, that was Vincent Price.”

  “Oh, Archy, how do you keep all that straight in your head?”

  “Perhaps because I have so little else in there.”

  “Don’t say that, Archy. You must never sell yourself short. Your Father is very proud of you even though he may not always show it.”

  I don’t know how proud Father would be when he learned I had tuned in to Freddy and an exotic called Lolly Pops for the likes of the Fairhursts and Tremaines to gloat over.

  “I can remember the day you were born,” Mother said, “but I can’t tell you what I had for breakfast an hour ago.”

  “I imagine my arrival was more interesting than Ursi’s French toast.”

  “Yes, French toast. How did you guess?”

  I refrained from pulling the psychic act but was spared the need to answer when Mother cried, “Here she is and I forgot her name.”

  Turning, I saw a woman exiting our back door with Ursi behind her, pointing the way to our modest greenhouse. “Her name, Mother, is Kate Mulligan and aren’t you the grand dame with your own gardener. What next? Your personal lady in waiting?”

  “Oh, Archy, I certainly hope not. I would keep forgetting her name. And having someone come in to tend my garden was a condition of my going on this trip. I’m doing it to please your father and because I know he needs the rest.”

  “That’s very kind of you, Mother. And here’s Ms. Mulligan.”

  The woman entering the greenhouse was, I would guess, in her early forties, with auburn hair cut short, vivid blue eyes, a trim figure and a fine pair of legs her waterproof Top-Siders could not disguise. She did nothing to hide the freckles that dotted the bridge of her nose and most likely because she knew they were as fetching as her smile. “Hello. I’m Kate Mulligan. You’re Mrs. McNally, I presume.”

  “Yes, dear, I am. And this is my son, Archy.”

  “Charmed, I’m sure,” Kate said, taking first my mother’s hand and then mine. “Your garden is lovely, Mrs. McNally. Begonias are my favorite flower. That’s an Eyelash, isn’t it?”

  “Why yes, it is.” Mother beamed with joy.

  I didn’t know how much Kate Mulligan knew about horticulture but she sure knew how to please a prospective employer. She wasn’t doing bad with the employer’s son either.

  “I will leave you ladies to your labors,” I said, giving Mother a goodbye peck on her cheek. “I’m sure I’ll be seeing you again, Ms. Mulligan.”

  “Call me Kate, please, and I’ll be bold enough to call you Archy if I may. Are you going on holiday with your parents?”

  “Like you, Kate, duty prevents me from leaving the salt mines of Palm Beach in season. I’ll be right here.”

  “Then I know I’ll be seeing you again, Archy.”

  Hobo followed me to my Miata and I paused long enough to pat his head and whisper, “She ain’t a stew, Hobo, but man does not live by bread alone.” Hobo responded by putting his tail between his legs.

  I ran into Joe Anderson outside my father’s office. A retired postal worker well over seventy, Joe is the sole employee of our mailroom and, like me, the de facto reigning king of his turf. Need I add that Joe’s office is larger than mine?—but then so is your handkerchief.

  “How is Binky?” Joe asked, forcing me to procrastinate facing the guv’nor, which was fine with me.

  “Binky is well, Joe. I saw him last week and he asked for you.”

  Binky’s interest in Joe’s well-being is not strictly altruistic, something which pangs me, as I am the matchmaker who brought them together in what I had hoped would be a mutually beneficial relationship. My young friend, Binky Watrous, has been in the job market for the past twelve of his almost thirty years. Ursi’s comment notwithstanding, the pot has not been invented for the cover Binky Watrous has to offer.

  ’Twas a month before Christmas last when I secured Binky a temporary position at McNally & Son to assist Joe Anderson in coping with the holiday mail rush. Mrs. Trelawney took an instant liking to my friend more because Binky actually blushed at her risqué humor than his expertise in handling the company mail. In appreciation, Mrs. Trelawney promised Binky that when Joe retired for a second time, either by Joe’s own volition or that of God’s, Binky would be crowned king of the mailroom on Royal Palm Way.

  Not since Pip has anyone anticipated their future with the wonder, joy and trepidation that Mrs. Trelawney’s offer aroused in the heart and mind of Binky Watrous. In preparation for his date with destiny, Binky has devoted himself to the study of tomes with such riveting titles as The ABCs of Mail Room Procedure for Mini and Mega Corporations—as well as a morbid interest in Joe Anderson’s health which, bless him, is better than Binky’s.

  “Tell him I was asking for him,” Joe said, “and I put your mail in your office.”

  My mail consists of envelopes stuffed with dozens of tiny stick-on return address labels in return for which I am asked to make a generous donation to the unwed mothers of a variety of banana republic countries; catalogs offering everything the thinking detective needs, from bugging devices disguised as earrings to earrings capable of photographing unfaithful husbands being unfaithful; and for the junk-food addicted, the deplorable offerings of fast-food joints spanning the state from Miami to Jacksonville, inviting me to fax my order for prompt delivery.

  “He’s been asking for you,” Mrs. Trelawney said, jerking a thumb at the don’s office door. “Herb rang me to tell me you had arrived. I wish you luck.”

  “You’ve heard the news?”

  “Binky called at nine this morning,” she informed me.

  “Binky?” I cried. “Was he hiding under Ouspenskaya’s turban?”

  Mrs. Trelawney shook her head of gray Dynel. “He wandered into Ta-Boo’ for a nightcap and ran into...”

  “Say no more, Mrs. Trelawney.” By now my misadventure with Serge Ouspenskaya was probably being typeset at Lolly Spindrift’s gossip sheet.

  Father was seated at his desk wearing a vested blue suit and a Countess Mara tie that looked like an original de Koonig. “Sorry I’m so late, sir, but it was a long night.”

  “So I heard. Have a seat, Archy, and give me the postmortem. I’ve already heard the news.”

  “From who, sir?”

  “Richard Holmes, who else? He got it from his wife who got it directly from the horse’s mouth first thing this morning.”

  Horse’s arse would be more apropos, but Father is a proper Victorian and I don’t buck the trend. “Ouspenskaya actually called Desdemona Darling and told her what happened at the séance?”

  “Not exactly,” Father said. “Knowing that the Tremaines were entertaining Ouspenskaya last night, Desdemona called P
enny to learn how it went.”

  “I didn’t know they knew each other. Desdemona and Penny, that is.”

  “As you may know, Desdemona and Lady Cynthia are old friends and Lady C took it upon herself to introduce Desdemona and her husband to the people in Palm Beach who count. After that, Desdemona joined a small clique of Ouspenskaya followers led by Lady C and Penny Tremaine.” Father tugged at his mustache in a most disconcerting manner. “After hearing what Penny had to say, Desdemona called Ouspenskaya to verify the facts.”

  “Interesting,” was my contribution.

  “More interesting than you know, Archy. It seems Ouspenskaya, or should I say my father, said something that no mortal knew, except for Desdemona and Lady Cynthia. Desdemona is now more convinced than ever that Ouspenskaya has the gift.”

  “If she means the mention of the Lake Worth Playhouse, I learned from a source before the séance that Lady C and Desdemona got themselves involved with the community theater. After the sitting I learned their venue would be the Lake Worth Playhouse. There are very few secrets in this town, sir. Aside from that I have no idea what it could be.”

  Father said thoughtfully, “I think there’s more to it than that. Tell me everything that happened, Archy.”

  I gave Father a detailed description of my evening at the Tremaines’, leaving out only Vance’s lusting after Fitz and Arnold’s hysterics over the name Lolly Pops. When I finished, Father gave his mustache a tug that surely must have hurt his upper lip. “He knew about my proposed cruise right down to the ships I’m considering?”

  “It would appear so, sir.”

  “How does he do it, Archy?”

  “The mention of the cruise ships, sir, I don’t know,” I admitted, “but I intend to find out. Grandfather’s profession is not exactly classified information and a visit to the Lake Worth Playhouse should help me ascertain if Grandfather played there in ’24.”

  With a sigh, Father rose and went to his antique desk. “That won’t be necessary, Archy.” Opening one of the secret compartments he removed a sheet of paper and handed it to me. It was a playbill for the Oakley Theater dated January 1924, announcing the appearance of Freddy “always leave ’em laughing” McNally and the “Balloon Dancer,” Lolly Pops. An artist’s rendition of Lolly’s generous attributes made me “wonder if her balloons weren’t the size of a Luftwaffe zeppelin.

  “I still intend to visit the theater, sir, to learn if they maintain an archive where this information is readily available.”

  “Good idea, Archy.” Father retrieved the playbill and returned it to the secret compartment. What other treasures were resting within the belly of that masterpiece of eighteenth century American craftsmanship?

  I told Father that I had asked Vance Tremaine if Ouspenskaya knew who would be attending the séance. “Tremaine told me the psychic insisted on a guest list before agreeing to a sitting. He knew I would be there and I have reason to believe he knew I invited myself. A check on my association with McNally and Son would be sufficient for him to figure out what I was up to.”

  “I agree,” Father said, “but does he know who hired you?”

  “I think he does, sir, and I believe his performance last night was an exhibition of his powers aimed directly at me.”

  “A warning, Archy?”

  “It couldn’t be clearer, sir.”

  “What worries me is that if he knows who hired you to snoop around his operation it makes us look negligent in our promise of confidentiality to Richard Holmes and less than diligent in carrying out our duties. I don’t like it, Archy.”

  “Nor I, sir.”

  Before leaving I told Father that the person he had hired to tend Mother’s garden had arrived that morning.

  “Yes,” he said, “Kate Mulligan, I believe. Mother flatly refused to go on the cruise unless I hired someone to see that her garden and greenhouse didn’t suffer for her absence. What’s the woman like, Archy?”

  “Very pleasant, I would say, sir. She told Mother that begonias are her favorite flower and immediately won Mother’s approval.”

  Father smiled sheepishly, which is a rare occurrence, and admitted, “I informed the agency that Mother raised begonias and to instruct whomever they sent to make a point of praising the begonia family.”

  “Agency, sir?”

  “Yes. An agency in West Palm that supplies all sorts of temporary help. Mrs. Trelawney has used them for clerks when needed and she made the arrangements for Mother’s helper. The agency called me for personal details, which I thought very prudent, and from what you’ve told me it seems to have worked very well.”

  And from what I had seen of Kate Mulligan, I would have to agree.

  FIVE

  IN MY OFFICE I called my friend and compadre at the PBPD, Sergeant Al Rogoff. Al and I have worked together on several cases, usually to our mutual satisfaction.

  “Sergeant Rogoff,” he answered.

  “Archy McNally here,” I said. “How was your week in New York?”

  “Great. I rode the ferry to the Statue of Liberty, took the elevator to the top of the Empire State Building and hit all the topless bars the mayor hasn’t pressured into closing.”

  “Nice try, Al, but I’m not buying it. You were at the ballet every night. Right?”

  “Can it, Archy,” he stage whispered into the phone. “If that gets around the palace the Joe Sixpacks will be hanging tutus in my locker.”

  The palace is Al’s euphemism for the Palm Beach police station and Al is a closeted aficionado of the classical arts, from ballet to opera and all the stops along the way. One should not be misled by his passion for Mahler and Mendelssohn because Al Rogoff is as macho as they come and built like a bull. However, in a china shop he wouldn’t upset a Limoges teacup.

  “I’ll not betray you, Al,” I assured him. “Can I buy you lunch?”

  “Sorry, pal, I’m spoken for.”

  “If you’re turning down a free meal it must be serious business. Who’s the lucky lady, Policewoman Tweeny Alvarez?”

  “Jesus, Archy, I’d rather have lunch with you.”

  “Then why don’t you?”

  “You pay the lunch bill, Archy, but I end up with more work, more stress and one large headache, so no thanks. Solve your own problems.”

  “What makes you think I have a problem?”

  “Because you don’t invite me to lunch to gaze into my bloodshot eyes, but to pump me for information—or ask me for help.”

  My word, have he and Connie Garcia been commiserating? “May I ask one question which you can charge against our next lunch date?”

  “One, and make it snappy, I work for the overburdened taxpayer.”

  “Of which I am one, Al.”

  “If we had to depend on your contribution I’d be out of business.”

  “Be that as it may, Sergeant, have you ever heard of one Serge Ouspenskaya?”

  “A foreigner?” Al asked.

  “He pretends to be. More to the point, he’s this season’s most promising psychic.”

  Al uttered a descriptive expletive before griping. “Don’t tell me you’re involved with one of them again, Archy.”

  “One of those, Al. Obviously you remember Hertha Gloriana.”

  “How could I forget? That one ended in a shootout at a sleazy motel. Goodbye, Archy.”

  “Not so fast, Al. I’m hoping this one doesn’t come to that. The guy is not the shootout type. Would you let me know if any complaints come your way citing Ouspenskaya as the perp?”

  “Okay, I’ll nosy around, Archy. Can I know your involvement with this Ouspenskaya guy? Are you working on a case?”

  “I’m on a case, but that’s all I can tell you right now.”

  “So what else is new?” he quipped, but his tone belied the words. I had piqued his interest and his cavalier attitude gave way to the business at hand. “I’ll check from my end and if you turn up anything on the guy let me in on it ASAP. I would hate to see you clobbered with a crystal
ball.”

  “Ouspenskaya transmits via shortwave radio, Al.”

  “Is he selling air time?”

  “I believe he is, Sergeant.”

  “I’ll be in touch.”

  “Thanks, Al. I owe you.”

  “We’re here to serve, pal.”

  One of the advantages of having a firm like McNally & Son to lean on is its library which is supervised by our in-house paralegal, Sofia Richmond. Besides her legal expertise, Sofia is a qualified librarian, a computer whiz, and a researcher who doesn’t have to ask a pol if he wears briefs or boxers because, so she claims, she has X-ray vision. Sofia’s age I imagine to be somewhere between forty and terminal.

  I have long believed that if Sofia let down her hair—worn pulled back from her face and knotted in a ridiculous bun at the rear of her head—removed the horn-rimmed glasses, sturdy oxfords and shapeless hopsack suits, there would emerge if not a butterfly, certainly a dragonfly. Archy, the optimist.

  Sofia has never made a play for me, which means she has a lover who would make Charlie Atlas look like a sissy, or a girlfriend who looks like Charlie Atlas. Did I also mention that Sofia Richmond is the only one in the office who can read between the lines of Lolly Spindrift’s blind items? In a word, Sofia not only knows all but, if pressured, will reveal what she knows.

  “You look lovely, Archy,” Sofia welcomed me into her world of books, magazines, computers and yesterday’s half-filled cardboard coffee container. Neatness is not Sofia’s driving force, but then McNally & Son was not paying her to be a hausfrau.

  “You don’t look bad yourself, Sofia,” I said.

  “You lie like a rug, love. I know I need work, but then who doesn’t?”

  She wouldn’t get an argument with me on that score. “What’s the latest scuttlebutt, Sofia?”

  She lit a cigarette and tossed the used match into an ashtray that held enough unfiltered butts to span the Golden Gate Bridge if placed end to end. “Desdemona Darling is among us, love, fifty pounds overweight but as lovely as the days when she gave new meaning to the name Homo erectus.”

  As you can see, Sofia knows how to turn a phrase.