McNally's Trial Read online

  We emptied the martini pitcher and trooped downstairs, laughing for no particular reason. Ursi and Jamie Olson came from the kitchen to tell us how magnificent we all looked and to wish us a wonderful evening.

  Father drove his big Lexus with mother sitting alongside him. I followed in my flaming scooter, feeling like the skipper of a dinghy trailing the QE2. I think we were all stimulated by the prospect of attending a lavish and crowded revel. The social season in Palm Beach was just getting under way. This was the first big party and offered an opportunity to shed the doldrums of a too long and too hot summer.

  I know I was convinced it was going to be a glorious rollick during which I would meet The Girl of My Dreams (Clara Bow) and be universally admired for my skill in executing the Charleston. I would forget about whatever nonsense was transpiring at Whitcomb Funeral Homes and spend a rompish night obeying Herrick’s command: “Gather ye rosebuds while ye may.” That was my firm intention.

  One never knows, do one?

  7.

  THE HOME OF SARAH and Horace, the senior Whitcombs, was a palazzo on North Lake Way. It was an aging edifice somewhat lacking in charm. The most amazing feature was the vegetation. I mean, the lot had to be almost two acres and looked like an arboretum with hedges fifteen feet high. You could hardly see the house until you were standing at the front door.

  Valet parking had been provided; we surrendered our vehicles and stepped up to a portico topped by a wrought-iron balcony. Awaiting my arrival was Signore Binky Watrous, the tyro Mike Hammer. I blinked when I saw his costume.

  The idiot was sockless and wearing white mocs, white trousers, and a white shirt with a cascade of ruffles. Worse, his jacket, cummerbund, and bow tie were red checkered linen, looking as if they had been made from the tablecloth of a cheap Neapolitan restaurant. He should have been carrying an empty Chianti bottle wrapped in raffia with a candle stub stuck in its mouth.

  “Fetching?” he asked, smoothing the hideously wide lapels.

  “I wish someone would,” I said. “Binky, where did you get that monstrosity?”

  “I had it designed especially for me.”

  “By whom—the ghost of Liberace? Here is your invitation. I suggest you precede me and for the remainder of the evening let’s pretend we are total strangers to each other.”

  “You want me to ask questions?” he said eagerly. “You know, interrogate people? The old third degree.”

  “By all means,” I said. “If you can find anyone willing to be seen conversing with Bozo the Clown.”

  My parents had already entered. Binky went inside and I waited a few moments, mortified by the appearance of my henchman. He looked as if he’d be right at home on the stage of the Grand Ole Opry—playing a kazoo no doubt.

  I walked through the open front door and surrendered my invitation to a uniformed flunky. I stood a moment to look about and then had to step out of the way as more guests continued to arrive. But the interior of that home was worth close inspection.

  If the exterior had been charmless, the inside was something else again. Warm elegance is the only way I can describe it. High ceilings, museum-quality parquet floors, walls papered in an antique trompe l’oeil pattern, furnishings at once attractive and selected for comfort. There were some odd decorative touches that caught the eye: a marvelous model of the first motorcar (an 1886 Benz) in a glass display case; a mysterious Cycladic female figurine; a rattan fireplace screen mimicking a peacock’s tail.

  There were at least a dozen guests waiting to be received. I took my place at the end of the line and waited patiently. I had expected to be greeted by Sarah and Horace Whitcomb plus son Oliver and daughter-in-law Mitzi. But as the line moved slowly forward I saw that only an oldish gentleman was shaking hands and alongside him, in a wheelchair, was a lady I presumed to be his spouse. There was nothing doddery about either. They spoke animatedly, laughed frequently, and obviously were enlivened by their roles as hosts for this crowded jollification.

  “Horace Whitcomb,” he said, smiling and holding out a sinewy hand. “Thank you for coming.”

  “Thank you for having me, sir,” I said, shaking that hard paw. “I’m Archy McNally, Prescott’s son.”

  “Of course! So nice to meet you.”

  “The honor is mine,” I said. “You have a lovely home, Mr. Whitcomb.”

  He gave me a wry-crisp grin. “It’s really an ugly heap, isn’t it? My father tore a photo from a magazine and had the architect imitate it.”

  “The exterior may be a bit awkward,” I admitted, “but the interior is a sheer delight.”

  He was obviously pleased, a tall and slender man with the ramrod posture of a drill instructor. His fine hair was silvered and pale blue eyes were startling against suntanned skin. He had a scimitar nose and there was a network of laugh lines at the corners of his wide mouth. A genial patrician. And something majestic about him.

  “That’s very kind of you,” he said. “Perhaps you and I might have a chat later.”

  “I’d like that, sir.”

  “Meanwhile I want you to meet my dear wife, Sarah, the lady responsible for the sheer delight you mentioned.”

  He introduced us and went back to greeting arriving guests. I leaned over the wheelchair and gently pressed the frail hand offered me.

  “How good of you to come,” she said in a wispy voice.

  “My pleasure, ma’am,” I said. “I understand it’s your birthday.”

  She nodded. “But I’m not counting,” she cautioned.

  “I apologize for not bringing a gift.”

  “Your presence is gift enough,” she said.

  I suppose she had uttered that line fifty times during the evening, but I still thought it an extraordinarily gracious thing to say.

  She seemed shrunken. The skin of her bare forearms was wrinkled as if she had once weighed many pounds more but the flesh had simply sloughed away. There was a waxen pallor beneath her makeup, and she wore a multicolored turban that covered her entire skull. I suspected she was undergoing chemotherapy and had lost her hair. But her spirit was undaunted.

  “Are you married?” she asked me.

  “No, ma’am, I am not.”

  “Do you want to be?”

  “No, ma’am, I do not.”

  She laughed and reached up to pat my arm. “I don’t blame you one damned bit,” she said. “Well, you’re a handsome devil. Now go mingle and break a few hearts.”

  “Before I do that,” I said, “I must tell you how much I admire the decor of your home. It’s just splendid.”

  “Yes,” she said softly, “it is beautiful, isn’t it? This home has been my passion. I wanted everything to be perfect”

  “You’ve succeeded brilliantly,” I assured her.

  She looked longingly at the vast entrance hall, through the lofty archway to the living room. She seemed to be seeing things I had not yet viewed, things no one would ever see and love the way she did.

  Her dim eyes glistened. “Thank you,” she said huskily. “Thank you so very, very much.”

  I moved away to explore more of the Whitcomb mansion. There was a grand staircase leading to upper floors, but a velvet rope had been stretched to block use by the evening’s guests. I strolled to the enormous living room, pausing occasionally to exchange greetings with friends and acquaintances, kissing a few ladies’ hands because I was in a Continental mood. There was a bar set up along one wall, doing a brisk business.

  A superb pine-paneled dining room accommodated the buffet boards presided over by the caterer and her crew. What a feast! I shall not detail the viands offered, in deference to calorie-obsessed readers. Well, just one: broiled chicken livers topped with squares of bacon and sharp cheddar.

  The enormous dining table was still in place, surrounded by twenty chairs. Additional small tables and folding chairs, obviously rented, had been placed about so guests would not be forced to eat standing while balancing a full plate and a brimming glass. It was in this banquet hall I fou
nd the second of the three bars Sunny Fogarty had promised and ordered a double vodka gimlet, believing it would last me twice as long as a single. Silly boy.

  Dancing space was provided in a smaller chamber that appeared to be an informal sitting and TV viewing room. Furniture and rugs had been removed, the planked floor waxed, and a trio tootled away in one corner, playing mostly show tunes and old favorites such as “Oh Johnny, Oh Johnny, Oh!” It was here I found my parents at the third bar, looking about amusedly while sipping what seemed to be Perrier with lime slices.

  “Mrs. McNally,” I said, bowing, “may I have the pleasure of this dance?”

  “Let me look at my card,” she said, then giggled.

  We placed our drinks temporarily on the bar, and father smiled benignly as we went twirling away to the rhythm of “Try a Little Tenderness.” Mother is hardly a sylph but remarkably light on her feet, and I think we justly believed ourselves to be the most graceful couple on the floor.

  The tune ended, we rejoined the squire at the bar.

  “Well done,” he said as if delivering a judicial opinion. And then to mother: “The next dance is mine. Unless they play something too fast.”

  Like “The Surrey with the Fringe on Top”? I wanted to ask—but didn’t of course.

  I meandered back to the dining room, which I now thought of as Bulimia Heaven. It was beginning to fill with ravenous guests. I was about to join the famished throng at the buffet when I espied Sunny Fogarty standing alone at the bar. I observed her from afar and concluded she was a handsome woman. Not lovely, not beautiful, but handsome. There are fine degrees of female attractiveness, you know.

  I moved to her side and she looked at me with a tight smile. “Good evening, Archy,” she said. “So glad you could make it.”

  “Wouldn’t have missed it for the world. Thank you for the invitations.”

  “I saw Binky,” she said. “Does he always dress like that?”

  “Always,” I said sadly. “His sartorial sense is gravely retarded. He once wore spats over flip-flops to a beach barbecue.”

  She laughed—which was a relief for she had seemed tense, almost angry.

  “I met Sarah and Horace,” I told her. “Lovely people.”

  “Yes, they are.”

  “She’s quite ill?”

  Sunny nodded.

  “Cancer?”

  She nodded again. “They said it was in remission, but it wasn’t.”

  “I thought her a very brave lady.”

  “An angel. She’s an angel.”

  I said, “I was surprised that Oliver and his wife weren’t also receiving.”

  Her bitterness returned. “So like them,” she said. “So selfish. To be late at his mother’s birthday party—that’s not forgivable. They arrived just a few minutes ago.”

  “Perhaps they were unavoidably detained,” I suggested.

  She looked at me but said nothing.

  She was wearing a snazzy tuxedo suit: black satin-lapeled jacket and trousers with side satin stripes. No cummerbund, but she wore a poet shirt of pale pink silk with protruding cuffs of lace. Very debonair. Her only jewelry was a choker of diamonds. They appeared to be of two-carat size at least, and if they were genuine, which I believed they were, it was a costly bauble indeed.

  “Sunny,” I said, “are you hungry?”

  “I could eat,” she admitted.

  “Suppose you grab us two places at a table and I’ll fetch us plates of cholesterol.”

  “All right,” she agreed. “But please make mine finger food; I don’t feel like digging into the curried lamb on rice or the beef bourguignonne. While you’re gone, can I get you a drink?”

  “I have a—” I started and then looked down at my empty glass. “Good Lord,” I said, “I had forgotten about the high rate of evaporation in South Florida. Yes, I would appreciate a fresh something. A dry white would be nice if it’s available.”

  Fifteen minutes later we were devouring heaps of the finger foods she had requested. There was an almost infinite variety and I recall fondly the shrimp that had been sautéed in garlic and oil and then chilled. That delight was enough to make me abjure bologna sandwiches for the rest of my life.

  “Archy,” she said as we nibbled, “will you do me a favor?”

  “Of course. Your wish is my command.”

  She was not amused. “I intend to leave about eleven o’clock,” she said. “You stay as long as you like, but would you mind stopping by my place before you go home?”

  “No problem.”

  “There’s something important I must discuss with you, and this is not the place to talk about it.”

  “It concerns the computer printout?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Bad?” I asked.

  “Very,” she said.

  8.

  WE FINISHED SCARFING (although I could have managed seconds or even thirds) and ordered two more Frascatis at the bar. Carrying our drinks, we began a slow promenade through the crowd of celebrants.

  “Sunny,” I said, “if you spot Oliver and Mitzi Whitcomb, will you point them out to me, please.”

  “I’ll point them out,” she said, “but I won’t introduce you.”

  “Oh? Why not?”

  “I don’t think that would be smart,” she said grimly, leaving me to wonder what on earth she meant.

  We looked in at the dance floor and there was Detective Binky Watrous essaying a tango with a rather flashy young woman. The trio was playing “Jealousy,” and it was obvious Binky thought himself a reincarnation of Rudolph Valentino. It was an awesome sight and I began laughing.

  Sunny permitted herself one soft chuckle. “His partner”—she said—”that’s Mitzi.”

  I took another look. The wife of the CEO of Whitcomb Funeral Homes was a stunner. She wore a tight sheath of silver sequins and her black hair was long enough to sit on. For her to sit on, not you. She was heavily made up and I didn’t miss the lip gloss that appeared to be phosphorescent.

  I don’t wish to be ungentlemanly but there was a flagrant looseness in her dancing as if restraint was foreign to her nature. I confess her sensuousness set the McNally testosterone flowing, but even as I reacted primitively to her physical advertisements I could not help wondering what Horace and Sarah, those aristocrats, thought of their somewhat brassy daughter-in-law.

  “Would you care to dance?” I asked Sunny.

  “Some other time,” she said shortly, and we continued our stroll.

  It was in the living room, clamorous with phatic talk, that she stopped me with a hand on my arm. “There’s Oliver Whitcomb,” she said in a low voice. “At the bar. He’s the one wearing a white dinner jacket. He’s talking to that heavy man. I don’t know who he is.”

  I stared. Oliver was a good-looking chap, no doubt about it, wearing an outfit similar to mine except that his jacket had a shawl collar. I judged him to be about forty, and his fresh complexion suggested he was no stranger to facials. His thick black hair was as glossy as his wife’s but artfully coiffed into waves. I wondered who his barber was, knowing it couldn’t be Herman Pincus.

  “I’ll leave you now,” Sunny Fogarty said. “Don’t forget to stop at my place on your way home.”

  Then she was gone and I made my way over to the bar. I finished my wine and asked for a cognac. Oliver and the hefty man were close together, speaking quietly; I couldn’t catch a word.

  “By the way,” I said loudly to the barkeep, “I’m looking for Oliver Whitcomb. Have you seen him this evening?”

  It was a crude ploy but it worked. Oliver turned to me and flashed absolutely white teeth, so perfect they looked like scrubbed bathroom tiles. The smile was more than cordial. Mr. Charm himself.

  “I’m Oliver Whitcomb,” he said.

  “I’ve been hoping to meet you,” I enthused. “I’m Archy McNally, the son part of McNally and Son, your attorneys.”

  His handclasp was firm enough but brief.

  “Hey,” he said
, “this is great! You people have been doing a great job.”

  “We try,” I said modestly. “I just wanted to thank you for a magnificent bash.”

  “Having fun, are you?”

  “Loads,” I assured him. “And it’s only the shank of the evening.”

  He looked at me with a gaze I can only describe as speculative. “Listen,” he said, “why don’t you and I do lunch. I have a feeling we have a lot in common.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  “Great!” he said, apparently his favorite adjective. “I’ll give you a buzz.”

  “Fine,” I said with what I hoped was a conspiratorial smile. I doubted if he’d ever call, but nothing ventured, nothing gained: an original phrase I just created. I wandered away, gripping my brandy snifter. He hadn’t introduced me to his pudgy companion. But there could be an innocent reason for that—or no reason at all.

  I had noticed several small, chastely lettered signs posted about: “If you wish to smoke, please step outside to the terrace or dock.” And so, in dreadful need to inhale burning tobacco, I looked about for an exit to the terrace. I finally had to stop a passing servitor lugging a bucket of ice, and he pointed the way.

  But before I had a chance to befoul the Great Outdoors I came upon a tottering Binky Watrous. His pale eyes were dazed and his checkered bow tie hung askew.

  “Binky,” I asked anxiously, “are you conscious?”

  He gave me a sappy grin. “I’m in love,” he said.

  I looked at him. What a booby he was! “With Mitzi Whitcomb, no doubt,” I said.

  He was astonished. “How did you know?”

  “A wild guess.”

  “She gave me her phone number,” he said proudly. “She wants to see me again. Archy, I think she’s got the hots for my damp white body.”

  I was about to warn him off, but then I reflected if he was able to form an intimate relationship with the nubile Mitzi he might possibly discover details of the younger Whitcombs’ activities that would further our investigation.