McNally's Puzzle Page 5

  Wandering about, glass in hand, I found Binky Watrous and Bridget Houlihan seated close together on a tattered velvet love seat. They were gazing into each other’s eyes with a look so moony I wanted to kick both of them in the shins.

  “Hi, kids,” I said, and they looked up, startled.

  “Oh,” Binky said finally. “Hello, Archy. Have you met Bridget?”

  “I have indeed,” I said. “Good evening, Bridget.”

  “The same,” she said dreamily, not releasing Binky’s paw. “Honey, do the call of the cuckoo again.”

  I hastily departed.

  I found the host putting another LP on his player and was happy he had not switched to CDs, which are too electronically perfect for me. I cherish those scratches and squawks of old vinyls. Mr. Gottschalk was about to place the needle on an original cast recording of Guys and Dolls.

  “Excellent choice, sir,” I said.

  He looked up. “Hello, Archy. Glad you could make it. Enjoying yourself?”

  “Immeasurably.”

  “Like old recordings, do you?”

  “Very much.”

  He paused to stare dimly into the distance. “I do too. And so did my dear wife. On our tenth anniversary she gave me an ancient shellac of Caruso singing ‘Vesti la giubbla.’”

  “What a treasure!” I said. “Do you still have it?”

  He gave me a queer look. “I don’t know what happened to it. I’ll try to find it.”

  The record started and I listened happily to “Fugue for Tinhorns.” Hi lowered the volume and turned to me. “Have you met my daughters?”

  “Not yet. How shall I tell them apart?”

  “Very difficult. But one of them has a mole, a small, black mole.”

  “Oh?” I said. “Which one—Judith or Julia?”

  He grinned mischievously. “I’m not allowed to tell.”

  “Well, where is this small, black mole located?”

  His grin broadened and he tugged at his Vandyke. “You’re an investigator, aren’t you?” he said. “Investigate and find out.”

  What an aging satyr he was!

  The buffet was really nothing extraordinary: a spiral-cut ham, cocktail franks in pastry cozies, chilled shrimp, crudités, cheese of no particular distinction, onion rolls a bit on the spongy side, and, for dessert, petits fours I suspected had been stamped out in a robotized Taiwan factory.

  There was, however, one dish I sampled and found blindly delicious. Cold cubes of something in a yummy sauce. At first I thought it might be filet mignon, but it lacked the meat’s texture. I ate more, entranced by the flavor and subtle aftertaste. Finally, determined to identify this wonder, I found my way into the Gottschalks’ kitchen.

  There I met a plumpish couple identified in Hiram’s list of his staff as Mr. Got Lee, chef, and his wife, Mei, who apparently functioned as a maid of all work. They were wearing matching skullcaps of linen decorated with beads and sequins, and I’ve never encountered more scrutable Orientals in my life. Both giggled continually; they either enjoyed high spirits or had been hitting a gallon jug of rice wine.

  I introduced myself and we all shook hands enthusiastically.

  “Ver’ happy,” Got said in a lilting voice.

  “Ver’ ver’ happy,” Mei said, topping him.

  “My pleasure,” I assured them. “You have prepared a marvelous party.”

  They both bowed and I was treated to another chorus of “ver’ happy’s” interspersed with giggles.

  “Tell me,” I said, “what is that excellent cold dish in a spicy sauce? It tastes somewhat like broiled steak but I’m sure it’s not. What on earth is it?”

  More giggles and a lengthy explanation in English so strangled I could scarcely follow it. The treat turned out to be thick chunks of portobello mushrooms grilled with seasoning, cooled, and then marinated in lots of swell stuff for an hour and served chilled.

  “Well, it’s wonderful,” I told them, and they beamed. “You enjoy working here, do you?”

  The beams faded and they looked at each other.

  “Ver’ happy,” Got said.

  “Ver’ ver’ happy,” Mei said.

  But the lilt was gone from their voices. The giggles had vanished. They were not, I decided, quite as scrutable as I had first thought.

  I was heading for the bar to refill my empty glass, since the contents had unaccountably evaporated. Ahead of me was a trig young man pouring himself a pony of Frangelico.

  “Wise choice,” I remarked.

  He turned to look at me. “I think so,” he said, with emphasis on the “I.”

  “Archy McNally,” I said, proffering a hand. “I represent McNally and Son, Mr. Gottschalk’s attorneys.”

  “Oh?” he said, and gave me a brief, rather limp handshake. “I’m Ricardo Chrisling. I manage Parrots Unlimited.”

  I had already guessed since he was everything Binky Watrous had described: handsome, sleek, possibly “gigoloish.” Binky had been accurate but he had not caught the lad’s finickiness: every shining hair in place, a shave I could never hope to equal, the three points of his jacket pocket handkerchief as precise and sharp as sword points. I wondered if the soles of his shoes were polished and the laces ironed.

  I must confess my description of Ricardo Chrisling might be tainted by envy. He was, after all, about ten years younger than I and closely resembled Rodolfo Alfonzo Rafaelo Pierre Filibert Guglielmi di Valentina d’Antonguolla, a/k/a Rudolph Valentino. I mean he was a beautiful man, features crisp and evocative. He really should have been out in Hollywood filming The Return of the Sheik instead of futzing around with parrots.

  “Nice party,” I observed.

  “Isn’t it?” he said rather coldly. I didn’t think he was much interested in me. And why should he be? I wasn’t a female. “Meeting everyone?” he said casually.

  “Gradually,” I said. “I haven’t yet come upon the guests of honor.”

  “The twins?” he said. “You will. They’re not shy.”

  I didn’t know how to interpret that. “How does one tell them apart?” I asked.

  “One doesn’t,” he said, gave me a bloodless smile, and moved away.

  He left me with the feeling he considered me a harmless duffer of no importance. That suited me. I didn’t want anyone in that household to suspect I was a keen-eyed beagle tracking a miscreant threatening the life of the lord of the manor.

  There were other guests in addition to Mr. Gottschalk’s immediate entourage. There must have been twenty or thirty—friends, neighbors, business acquaintances—and I found them an odd but pleasant lot, all eating and drinking up a storm.

  I met Yvonne Chrisling’s masseuse, the Got Lees’ greengrocer, a morose Peruvian who was apparently a parrot wholesaler, and one shy chap, barely articulate, who appeared awed by his surroundings. He finally admitted he mowed Mr. Gottschalk’s lawn and this was the first time he had been inside the house. We had a drink together and got along famously because this seemingly inarticulate fellow could sing “Super-cali-fragil-istic-expi-ali-docious.” I can’t even pronounce it.

  I also introduced myself to the young clerks from Parrots Unlimited—Emma Gompertz and Tony Sutcliffe—the twosome Binky Watrous reported had a “thing” going and might possibly be cohabiting. They appeared to be an innocuous couple, agreeable and polite, but really not much aware of anyone but each other. Their behavior—hand holding and dreamy stares—was remarkably akin to Binky’s conduct with Bridget Houlihan.

  Romance was rife that night, positively rife.

  I finally spotted the twins, Judith and Julia Gottschalk. I then experienced a moment of panic, fearing I was suffering an attack of double vision.

  Nothing of the sort of course. They were simply twins but so alike one could only marvel at their oneness. They were, I guessed, in their early thirties. Both had deep brown eyes and brown hair with russet glints, cut quite short. They were dressed differently, one in a silk pantsuit, the other in short leather skirt and frin
ged buckskin jacket. I suspected they shared a common wardrobe; their physical proportions seemed identical.

  They were chatting animatedly with each other and I wondered if twins ever became weary of their mirror images. They certainly didn’t seem bored at the moment, for they laughed frequently, occasionally leaned close to whisper, and once shook hands as if sealing a private pact. I thought them enormously attractive young ladies and hastened to join them.

  “Welcome home!” I said heartily, giving them my Jumbocharmer smile for I felt they were mature enough to withstand it.

  “Thank you,” they said in unison, and Pantsuit asked, “And who might you be?”

  “I might be Ivan the Terrible,” I said, “but I am not. My name is Archy McNally, and I work for your father’s attorneys.”

  “You’re a lawyer?”

  “Not quite. More of a para-paralegal. And you are...?”

  “Judith,” she said. “I think.” She turned to her twin. “Am I Judith, darling?”

  “I thought you were this morning,” Leather Skirt said. “But now I’m not so sure. You may be Julia.”

  “Which would make you Judith.”

  “I suppose. But I can’t be certain. I don’t feel like Judith.”

  Both looked at me with wide-eyed innocence. I realized this was a routine that amused them greatly and they used frequently to befuddle new acquaintances. They obviously had inherited their father’s quirky sense of humor.

  “I think I have a solution to this difficult problem,” I said. “Suppose I address each of you as Mike. Won’t that make things a lot simpler?”

  Both clapped their hands delightedly and gave me elfin grins.

  “Well done,” Pantsuit said.

  “Good show,” Leather Skirt said. “I love the idea of us both being Mike.”

  Their voices were identical in pitch and timbre.

  Pantsuit stared at me reflectively. “Archy McNally,” she repeated. “We’ve heard that name before. Are you a member of the Pelican Club?”

  “I am indeed.”

  “Peter has mentioned you. We’ve never been there, have we, Mike?”

  “Never, Mike,” her sibling said. “Take us there to lunch, Archy.”

  “I’ll be delighted. When?”

  “Tomorrow. Is twelve-thirty okay?”

  “Twelve-thirty is perfect.”

  “How should we dress?” Leather Skirt asked.

  “Informally. Laid-back. Funky. Whatever.”

  “That’s cool,” Pantsuit said.

  “You know how to find it?”

  “We’ll ask Peter. Thank you for the invite, Archy.”

  Mike #1 leaned forward suddenly to kiss me briefly on the lips. Her buss was sweet and tangy as a Vidalia onion. Ah-ha! Now, I reckoned, I’d be able to tell them apart. But then Mike #2 duplicated her sister’s action. Her kiss was sweet and tangy as a Vidalia onion.

  Archibald McNally, the master criminologist, flummoxed again.

  CHAPTER 7

  GUESTS BEGAN LEAVING AN HOUR before midnight. I looked about for Binky Watrous and his Celtic knish but they had already departed. I decided it was time to make my adieus and sought the host to thank him for a pleasant evening. But Hiram was nowhere to be found and so I delivered my farewell to Yvonne Chrisling.

  She was in a more relaxed mood than at our initial meeting. At least her handclasp was warm and she seemed reluctant to release me.

  “Thank you so much,” I said. “It was a lovely party.”

  “It was sweet of you to come,” she said. “I’m glad you had a good time and I hope you’ll visit again. Did you meet the twins?”

  “I surely did.”

  “And what did you think of them, Archy?”

  “Very personable,” I said carefully.

  She gave me a cryptic smile. “They’re not as scatterbrained as many people think. Quite the contrary.”

  Then she turned away to exchange good-byes with other guests, giving me no opportunity to ask what she meant by her last oblique comment.

  I exited into a sultry night, the air close and redolent of all that gross vegetation. I found my Miata and there, lolling in the passenger’s bucket, feet up on the dash, was Peter Gottschalk. He was smoking something acrid and I hoped it might be tobacco.

  “Good evening,” I said as calmly as I could. I do not appreciate my pride and joy being occupied without my permission, especially by irrational acquaintances.

  He patted the door. “Nice heap,” he said.

  “It is,” I agreed. “And now I intend to drive it home. By myself. Alone.”

  It didn’t register. I wasn’t certain he heard what I said.

  “How was the party?” he asked.

  “Very enjoyable.”

  “Bloody bore,” he contradicted me. “I cut out fast. All those phonies.”

  I was standing alongside the passenger door wondering if I would be forced to drag him out by the scruff. But his last denouncement intrigued me.

  “Phonies?” I repeated. “You’re referring to the guests?”

  His laugh was more of a snort. “I don’t even know all those stupid guests. I’m talking about the family and staff. Hypocrites, every one of them.”

  “Surely not your father.”

  “Him, too,” he said bitterly. “Maybe the worst. They think I don’t know what’s going on. I know damned well what’s going on.” He suddenly straightened and flicked away the butt of his cigarette. “Hey, let’s you and me make a night of it. We’ll go to the Pelican first for a couple of whacks and then take it from there.”

  “Some other time,” I told him. “I’m getting audited by the IRS in the morning so I better get a good night’s sleep.”

  I was afraid he might flare but he accepted the rejection equably. I suspected he was accustomed to rejection.

  He climbed out of the car and stood on the slated driveway, swaying gently. He was a thin, almost gaunt chap with hollow cheeks, sunken eyes. His hair was a mess and it was obvious he hadn’t shaved for at least two days. But he was decently dressed in denim jeans and jacket. A cleaner T-shirt would have helped, but you did not expect to find him sleeping in a cardboard carton under a bridge. I mean he was reasonably presentable if you didn’t gaze too intently into those stricken eyes.

  “Now I feel great,” he declared. “Just great.”

  “Glad to hear it,” I said.

  “Maybe I’ll cop the old man’s car and make a run to the Pelican Club myself.”

  “Don’t you have your own wheels?” I asked.

  “Nah. They grounded me. And took away my license,” he added.

  I wanted to warn him, but what was the use? He’d never listen to me. I doubted if he’d listen to anyone.

  “See you around,” he said lightly, and went dancing off into the darkness.

  I drove home slowly in a weighty mood. The evening had left me with a jumble of impressions. It resembled one of those Picasso paintings in which all the figures seem to have six limbs and three eyes. And you view them frontally and in profile simultaneously. A puzzlement.

  It was still relatively early when I arrived at my very own mini-abode. I could have spent an hour or so recording the evening’s events in my journal but I needed to sort out a plethora of reactions and try to find significance in what I had seen and heard. I disrobed and treated myself to a small marc and an English Oval to aid my ruminations.

  After thirty minutes of heavy-duty brooding the only preliminary conclusion I arrived at was that when it came to dysfunctional families the Gottschalks were candidates for world-class ranking. It was a hypothesis given confirmation when my phone rang shortly before I retired.

  “Archy?” the caller asked, and I recognized Hiram Gottschalk’s dry, twangy voice.

  “Yes, Hi,” I said. “I tried to find you to offer thanks for a delightful evening but I couldn’t locate you.”

  “You know that Caruso record I told you about. The one my dear wife gave me on our tenth anniversary.�
��

  “Yes, sir, I remember. The old shellac of Enrico singing ‘Vesti la guibba.’”

  “After I mentioned it to you I was bothered because I couldn’t remember where I had put it. So I went searching. I finally found it about ten minutes ago. Someone smashed it. Now it’s just junk.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said softly.

  “That record meant a lot to me. A gift from the woman I loved.”

  “I understand, Hi,” I said. “Would you like me to come over now and we’ll talk about it?”

  “No, no,” he said. “Thank you but that won’t be necessary. I just thought you should know.”

  “Of course. Hi, I don’t wish to be an alarmist but you should be prepared to find yourself a victim of similar acts of terrorism or viciousness before I can discover who is responsible.”

  “You think you can find out?”

  “Absolutely,” I said stoutly. There are some situations demanding unbridled confidence with all dubiety ignored. This was one of them.

  “Thank you, Archy,” he said gratefully. “You make me feel a lot better.”

  I went to bed that night wondering if the future would prove me Sir Galahad or Sir Schlemiel.

  By the time I clumped downstairs on Thursday morning my parents had long since breakfasted. I found Jamie Olson sitting alone in the kitchen. He was sucking on his old briar (the stem wound with a Band-Aid) and clutching a mug of black coffee I was certain he had enlivened with a jolt of aquavit. His chaps were definitely fallen.

  “What’s wrong, Jamie?” I inquired.

  “That damned raccoon again,” he said indignantly. “Got the lids off both trash cans. Made a mess. I’m going to catch up with that beast one of these days and give him what for. You want some breakfast, Mr. Archy?”

  “I’ll make it. Anything left over?”

  “A cold kipper.”

  “Sounds good to me. I’ll toast a muffin and slide it in with a bit of mayo. Enough hot coffee?”

  “Plenty.”

  I had a glass of V8 Picante, prepared my kipper sandwich, and poured a cup of inky caffeine. I sat across the table from our houseman.

  “Jamie,” I said, “ever hear of the Gottschalk family?”

  The Olsons, our staff of two, are part of a loose confederacy of butlers, maids, chefs, housekeepers, valets, and servants of all species who minister to the needs of the wealthier residents of the Palm Beaches. Experience had taught me that this serving but by no means servile class knew a great many intimate details about the private lives of their employers. It was information they would never divulge except, occasionally, to others in their profession when a good laugh was wanted.