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  “Are you bribing me, Mr. McNally?”

  “But of course.”

  “In that case I’ll have a Coors Light.”

  “And your roommate?”

  “Diet Coke,” he answered without a consultation.

  I filled the lunch order at the Bizarre Avenue Cafe which, bizarrely enough, is on Lake Avenue in Lake Worth, and picked up a six-pack of Coors at the local 7-Eleven. I did not keep receipts as it is more expedient and more profitable to estimate my expenses—it also infuriates Mrs. Trelawney.

  The house in the nine hundred block of South N Street was a two-story affair in peeling yellow-painted stucco. Todd Brandt occupied the ground floor. My knock was answered by a beautiful teenage girl with platinum-blond hair so straight it could have been ironed that morning. It fell to her shoulders on either side of a fringe of perfectly cut bangs. She was poured into a pair of jeans with a hole in one knee over which was a loose-fitting man’s shirt with the tails hanging out. Todd was to be envied.

  “Pizza man,” I introduced myself.

  “Hi. I’m Monica. Come on in.”

  I stepped into a minuscule hall before following Monica into the living room, which was furnished in things rattan, a grass rug and movie posters. The far wall was mostly sliding glass doors leading to what is called a Florida room, i.e., a screened-in patio. A long counter separated a fairly good-sized kitchen from the living room and was fronted by two backless bar stools.

  Todd entered from a doorway opposite the kitchen. “Hi, Mr. McNally. You’ve met Monica?” He took the square white cardboard box from me a moment before it singed the palms of both my hands and put it on the kitchen counter. Monica relieved me of the beer as she eyed my outfit, which consisted of freshly washed chinos, a black silk shirt, open collar, and a belted cord jacket. It’s not easy to find a belted cord jacket and I hoped she appreciated the fact.

  “Let’s eat outside,” Todd said. “Monica, get some paper plates and napkins. Do you need a glass, Mr. McNally?”

  Not wishing to utilize anything that might need washing, I declined and, taking the six-pack, followed Todd to the glass doors, which I slid open, allowing him and the pizza to precede me. The patio boasted a redwood table, folding beach chairs in green and white nylon, and a gas barbecue minus a gas tank. “The place comes furnished” Todd said by way of telling me he had nothing to do with the decor, in or out.

  Mother and I often describe people in terms of film stars, past and present. Now that Mother’s memory is not what it used to be I am happy to have Georgy girl to play the game with. I would tell her that Todd Brandt was a dead ringer for Richard Jaeckel, a boy-next-door type who played the young recruit in war films of the forties, often getting himself killed to ensure audience sympathy and sell war bonds.

  Todd’s hair is longish and sandyish, the exact shade depending on how much rinse he applies when he washes it and how much exposure it gets in the Florida sun. He has dark eyes, good teeth, and a smile that encourages people, especially older women, to overtip.

  “How’s the career going?” I asked when we were seated and the cardboard box opened to reveal the world’s oldest repast—bread and cheese.

  “I’m going into rehearsal for Death of a Salesman at the Lake Worth Playhouse.”

  “As Biff,” I guessed.

  “How’d you know?”

  “Miller wrote it with you in mind.”

  “Thanks, Mr. McNally, only I wasn’t born when he wrote it.”

  I wanted to say, Neither was I, but Monica joined us with the paper products and a Diet Coke, which, I suddenly realized, I had not brought. To compensate forgetting her I asked how her career was going.

  “I’m on a break from the U. of Florida in Gainesville,” she told me. “I came here to earn some bread working private parties and schlepping weekends at the Ambassador. I’m going back to school when the season is over.”

  “What are you studying?”

  “Political science,” she announced.

  Well, whoever would have thunk it? “You have my vote, Monica.”

  She liked that and gave me a dimpled smile. I thought a modern day Grant Wood might preserve this couple in oil—Monica in her Holey jeans and Todd in his yellow Bermuda shorts—and call it American Neo-Gothic.

  We all reached for a slice. I stuck to the anchovies as the Italian pepperoni gives me the Italian agita. Todd popped the tab on two cans of Coors Light and, the niceties out of the way, it was time to collect on my investment.

  TEN

  “A WISEGUY AND A MALCONTENT,” was Todd’s take on his late buddy, Jeffrey Rodgers. “The grass was always greener in someone else’s backyard and the backyard was always on the other side of the bridge in Palm Beach. He got petulant, as if he had been cheated out of his rightful place in the world, when he was a bartender and not a guest at the society shindigs we catered.”

  Todd’s briefing was in response to my asking him to tell me what Jeff Rodgers was all about. We had all put away two slices and were now nursing our drinks as Todd spoke. My life, if nothing else, is a study in contrasts. Yesterday, lobster salad at Mar-a-Lago. Today, pizza and beer in the backyard of a furnished apartment. The latter, to be sure, had the advantage of the company of two charming young people who more than made up for the modest ambiance.

  “And he worked the circuit. Palm Beach in the winter and East Hampton in the summer. He blew hot and cold with the rich, Mr. McNally. He didn’t have a kind word for them but he couldn’t stay away from them either. You know what I mean?”

  “I think I do, Todd.”

  Todd sipped from his can of Coors before going on. “Then, a few months back, I’m not sure exactly when, he was all smiles and boasting that he was coming into a lot of money by way of a rich relative.”

  I sat forward in my beach chair. “Did you ever hear about a rich relation before this?”

  “Never,” Todd said. “I figured it was just more of Jeff’s wishful thinking. He did a lot of that.”

  “He told me,” Monica put in, “that when he went back north he was going to buy a house in the Hamptons and maybe open his own restaurant. He said if I wanted I could come to work for him.”

  “Do you think he was serious?” I directed this at Todd, refraining from asking if Jeff’s supposed windfall surfaced with the arrival of Lance Talbot in our midst. I wanted neither to tip my hand nor taint Todd’s memory with my input. As it turned out, Todd needed no prompting to introduce Lance Talbot as a major player in the life and times of Jeff Rodgers. If there was any doubt that Jeff was blackmailing Talbot, it would be dispelled before the remaining two slices of pizza grew cold.

  “Jeff was a four-flusher, Mr. McNally. Always pointing out the guys and gals he was chummy with in his days at the Day School and telling anyone who would listen what he knew that could embarrass them. I think it was really frustrating for him when he worked parties they attended or served in restaurants they patronized. But I have to tell you, the way he was bragging these past weeks I started to believe that he was really coming into big money. He said if I came north with him, he would get me into the Actors Studio. Big deal. Who needs the method when you got a mug as cute as mine?” He laughed to tell me he was only kidding, but I knew better.

  I was glad it was Todd who had brought up the Day School. It saved me from having to initiate the topic. Recalling our phone conversation, I said, “So what was the likes of Jeff Rodgers doing at the Day School?”

  “Lance Talbot,” Todd said, not having the slightest idea of the consequences of his disclosure.

  I wanted to shout Bingo! but that would be gauche as well as premature. If I was about to learn the tie-in between Jeff Rodgers and Lance Talbot, my return on the cost of a pizza and a six-pack was bullish, indeed. The last thing I wanted was for Todd and Monica to guess my mission and go blabbing to their crowd that Archy McNally suspected Lance Talbot of Jeff’s murder. My clients, the police and last, but most important, my father, would not be amused—nor would
Lance himself, who would hire a lawyer to press a libel suit against me. Good grief, would Father offer his services? I suspect he would.

  This was my first break in the case and of interest to both my clients. My job now was to look, listen and make no moves until I was certain I was treading on solid bedrock and not quicksand.

  “The story goes,” Todd explained, “that Jeff’s father was the Talbots’ chauffeur. Jeff and Lance were about the same age and the boys became buddies, sharing the same sandbox on Ocean Boulevard. They were so tight that when Lance was enrolled in the Day School his mother sent Jeff along with him, picking up Jeff’s tuition.

  “Mr. Rodgers drove the boys to and from school and I bet from kindergarten on Jeff didn’t want the other kids to know the chauffeur was his father. Given this was in Palm Beach, I would say everyone knew it.

  “Then, when the boys were about ten, Lance’s mother took off for Switzerland, taking Lance with her and ending Jeff’s glory days at the Palm Beach Day School.”

  “Incredible,” I uttered, and meant it. It was a story even the soaps would find too hokey to air. I could see Jeff at the bottom of the MacNiff pool, a half-smoked cigarette floating over a dead body; then I saw a ten-year-old being booted out of the only school he had ever attended. The chip on Jeffrey Rodgers’s shoulder must have weighed a ton.

  Was Jeff’s father the chauffeur who accidentally closed the car door on young Lance’s foot, causing his little toe to be amputated? I doubted if Todd knew anything about this and didn’t volunteer the information. I was here to take, not give.

  Thinking aloud, I heard myself saying, “Did Jeff see Lance when he returned to Palm Beach?”

  Todd drained his can of beer before shaking his head and answering, “I don’t know, Mr. McNally. If he did, he didn’t mention it to me.”

  “But you do know Lance Talbot was at the MacNiff benefit you guys worked the afternoon Jeff was shoved into the pool.”

  “Sure I know,” Todd said.

  “Did Jeff have anything to say about Lance that day?”

  Again I got a shake of the professionally cut mop of hair. “We were busy, Mr. McNally, and had little time to do anything but our usual bitching and moaning.”

  I wanted to ask if he saw Jeff and Lance exchange any words that afternoon, or even if he noticed them in close proximity to each other, but didn’t. I had learned enough and more talk of Lance Talbot and Jeff would only arouse suspicion. It was obvious that Todd hadn’t a clue as to the connection between Jeff’s alleged windfall and Lance’s arrival in Palm Beach and I wanted to keep it that way for now.

  “Todd,” I said, “I’m sure the police asked you if you know anyone who wanted to harm Jeff, but I can’t leave without asking the same thing.”

  “I have no idea, Mr. McNally. I swear to you, I don’t. We all smoke a little pot, you know that, and we’ve all tried the trendy pills like Ecstasy now and again, but none of our crowd, including Jeff, is into any heavy scene in that direction. What I’m saying is, Jeff wouldn’t be in debt to a dealer.”

  “What about a jilted lover, woman or man?” I probed.

  “If Jeff was hustling, I didn’t know it.”

  “Did you see anyone go from the tennis courts to the pool after Jeff went on his break, about the time we talked?”

  “Negative,” he responded before asking, “Are you looking into this on behalf of Mr. MacNiff? I mean because it happened on his turf.”

  “I am, Todd, but I would rather it wasn’t common knowledge.”

  “I understand,” he said. “I know it’s your job, but the police have been over all this with me and the entire catering staff.” With that note of mocking innuendo he added, “Have they questioned the guests?”

  “I’m sure they have, and it’s still going on. In fact, I’m waiting for my call. Even Jackson Barnett has been told not to leave town.”

  At the mention of Jackson Barnett, Todd and Monica exchanged a look that told me the name was of profound interest to one or both of them. Verifying the thought, Monica said, “Todd wants to ask you something.”

  “About Jackson Barnett? All I know about him is what I read in the sport pages and gossip columns.”

  “Me, too,” Todd said, “so I know he’s going to do a film for a major Hollywood studio. Lolly Spindrift wrote that Jackson was staying on Phil Meecham’s yacht, and that the studio is sending a crew here because Jackson can’t go to Hollywood for the preliminary tests, and Meecham has invited the crew to stay aboard the Sans Souci.”

  When he paused to catch his breath, I said, “So I’ve heard.”

  “You know Mr. Meecham,” Todd stated rather than asked.

  With a sigh, Monica brought the painful scene to a head, saying, “He wants to ask you if you’ll help him get a job on Meecham’s yacht so he can be discovered.”

  “Can it, Monica,” Todd advised.

  I like Todd Brandt and he had been a great help to me today. Not wishing to rain on his parade, I didn’t say I believed Lolly’s story was more hyperbole than fact, but told him I would try to get him aboard the Sans Souci when and if the cameras began to grind.

  “I would be more noticed if I was working for Meecham. Bartender, deck boy, anything like that.”

  “I don’t think I would like to see you join Phil’s crew, Todd. Believe me, it’s not your kind of gig.”

  He grinned charmingly. “I know all about Meecham and his boys and girls, Mr. McNally, but I can take care of myself.”

  “Really, Todd? I strongly suspect Jeff Rodgers believed he could take care of himself, too.”

  I had a lot to think about on my drive back to Palm Beach, not the least of which was envisioning Jeff Rodgers’s frame of mind the day he was murdered. Know thy victim. “A wiseguy and a malcontent.” The malcontent must have been seething as he watched his boyhood chum, now come into millions, cavorting among the Palm Beach elite with a beautiful and mysterious older woman on his arm, while the wiseguy was plotting his revenge.

  Passing the GulfStream on my approach to the bridge, I thought of Denny and what a great story this was going to make for his avid readers. If rags to riches was a popular theme—rags to riches to rags would get Darling a movie deal. Pauper meets prince, pauper loses prince, pauper dies because of what he learned about the prince. Nice plot, except the prince did not kill the pauper and there was a ten-year span between the pauper’s exile and his untimely death.

  Jeff and Lance were friends years ago, when they both attended the Palm Beach Day School and even before that. When the boys were about ten, Lance and his mother left Palm Beach to make their home in Switzerland. If Jeff knew something disparaging about Lance it went back to the first ten years of their lives, when they were mere tots. Surely, Jeff wasn’t killed because he knew Lance was a rake with the girls in the first grade or had plagiarized an essay in the fourth grade.

  A detective is akin to a plastic surgeon reconstructing the face of an accident victim. The PI gathers the facts, puts them together and comes up with a scenario that he hopes is a true replica of the events as they happened. A skilled surgeon probably works from a photo of the guy going under the scalpel. In both cases you end up with a reproduction. At best, a plausible likeness, at worst, a distortion of the truth.

  Excuse the analogy, but was Lance Talbot wearing a surgical mask that was a good likeness but a distortion of the truth? If Lance didn’t commit a major indiscretion in the first ten years of his life, the only thing Jeff could have against him was that he wasn’t who he claimed to be. My rationale was Nifty’s feeling that old Mrs. Talbot had some doubts about her grandson she either wasn’t able to articulate or wasn’t able to define. Neither Jeff nor Mrs. Talbot had seen Lance in ten years. Could Jeff have discerned something about his boyhood friend that a sick old lady could only puzzle over? If Jeff’s father was the chauffeur that caused the accident, Jeff would know about the amputated toe. Could Jeff have had a look at the returned Lance’s feet? Unlikely.

  This
line of thinking had me heading straight for the MacNiff house to report what I suspected. Purposely, I made a detour to Seaview Avenue and drove past the Palm Beach Day School. A charming, light and airy edifice surrounded by palm trees, it looks like an ideal setting for the young and privileged. Noted for their soccer team, the Bulldogs, the school recently enrolled two boys, one from Italy, the other from England, to join the varsity squad, living up to its claim that “Beyond academics, the Palm Beach Day School stresses the importance of community service, athletics, fine art and social skills.” Jeff must have loved it.

  I drove the Miata off the A1A, or Ocean Boulevard if you prefer, and into the MacNiff driveway, pulling up short of the three-car garage that displayed the tails of a Rolls and a BMW The third door was closed so one could only guess what it was hiding. My ring was answered by Maria Sanchez in a white uniform that would not be out of place in a hospital’s intensive care unit. Maria is a shapely woman with the hourglass figure so popular a hundred years ago. I wanted to encourage her with the fact that what goes around, comes around.

  “Mr. McNally,” she said, as if I were the last person she expected to find on the MacNiffs’ doorstep.

  “In person, Maria. May I come in?”

  “Yes. Please.” She opened the door to allow me to step into the entrance foyer, which was modest by Palm Beach standards. I doubt if it could hold more than a string quartet and a dozen waltzing couples. The furnishings of the MacNiff home are not Louis Seize or Louis Didn’t Say, but American and British antiques worthy of the Winterthur collection. Wood, not gilt, dominated, making the display more home and hearth than awesome. But then the landed gentry don’t have to dazzle to intimidate.

  “When you call Ursi to tell her I’m here, Maria, would you mention that I will be home for dinner this evening?”

  Maria blushed scarlet. “Mr. McNally. I no do such a ting, you bad boy.” My word, she sounded like Carmen Miranda.

  “Before you no do such a ting, would you announce me to Mr. MacNiff?”