McNally's chance

Seven

Herb flagged me from his kiosk as I pulled into our underground garage.

When I reached his post he was standing by the door displaying a shiny chrome object with the lid open that might have been a relic from the Spanish Inquisition.

“How do you like it?” He asked.

“I would hate to get my foot caught in it,” I assured him. “What are you trapping?”

“Trapping?” he cried. “I’m not trapping anything. It’s a waffle iron.”

I’m a pancake man myself, but not wishing to offend I said, “Whatever turns you on, Herb.”

“It’s not for me, Archy. I bought it for Binky’s housewarming.”

Words failed me. This was clearly getting out of hand. If everyone in the McNally Building bought Binky a gift he could open a Circuit City.

“Did Mrs. Trelawney suggest the waffle iron?”

“She did,” he answered.

“Rather pushy, don’t you think?”

“You have to admit, Archy, it’s better than having to decide for yourself. I would have bought him a bottle of hooch.”

“Well, you should have. Binky won’t know what to do with that contraption.”

“It comes with an instruction book,” herb said as if he represented the waffle-iron industry.

“Binky Watrous can’t read,” I declared disparagingly.

“Then how does he deliver the mail?”

“Pneumatic tubing, that’s how.”

Herb scratched his head and grunted, “Sometimes, Archy, I don’t get your drift.”

“Sometimes, Herb, neither do I.”

In my office I found a message telling me that Connie had called.

Sandwiched between the afternoon mail I also found a consumer guide magazine opened to the page rating microwave ovens. I dropped it in my wastebasket.

Before calling Connie, I asked our switchboard to connect me with the Chesterfield. The desk clerk told me that Ms Wright was no longer in residence. True to his word, Silvester must have called his wife as soon as I left The Breakers, and Sabrina had lost no time in joining her family. By now mother and daughter would be locking horns, with Silvester and Ward acting as intermediaries when they weren’t tossing a few stink bombs of their own into the melee. And people wonder why I refuse to get spliced.

In retrospect, I had no regrets terminating the case and my association with Sabrina Wright. Her lure was sirenic, and best enjoyed from a safe distance. Get too close and you’re caught in the undertow. She was a survivor, for which I admired her, but in rough seas survivors toss cargo and crew overboard to lighten the load. That’s how they survive. Silvester had given me the answers to the questions that had been bothering me. How Sabrina had gotten my name and the reason for the covert meeting at a pub in West Palm. Having met Gillian and Zack I was convinced that they did not make the call to Lolly Spindrift and stuck to the premise that the leak had come from the hotel. True, the evidence was circumstantial, but men have been known to hang on less convincing evidence. Silvester had also filled me in on why he had arrived in Palm Beach without his wife and why he tried to keep Sabrina at bay while he talked to his stepdaughter. The pieces all seemed to fit, but as I cogitated over the events of the last two days I wasn’t satisfied with the picture that emerged. There was something missing.

Was it something I had forgotten to ask? If so, what it was kept eluding me. I knew it would surface when least expected but, as the case was no longer on my docket, there was no urgency. Final thoughts on “The Man That Got Away’: What was Gillian’s father thinking at this moment and what wouldn’t I give to know his name? Also, what wouldn’t I give not to have to tell Lolly Spindrift his interview with Sabrina Wright was caput?

When I got Connie on the line, she said she had called to see if I was still among the living. It’s Connie’s way of asking for a date. I invited her to join me for a cocktail at the Pelican after work. That’s my way of accepting.

“I was there this afternoon, hoping to see you and buy you lunch,” she said.

This was just the thing I had cautioned against when the Pelican board members decided to make the club coed. At Yale the rash move manifested itself in the fact that one now had to wear trunks in the swimming pool. If Connie had been planning to stand me lunch what could I do but say, “Let’s make it a night and have dinner.”

“Why, Archy, what a nice idea,” she said and rang off.

When my phone rang moments later, I thought it might be Connie calling to say she just remembered she was meeting a girlfriend that evening and could she have a rain check? I would pout, beg her to cancel, and issue a rain check good for a year and a day from the date noted above.

Imagine my surprise when our switchboard person announced that Mr.

Thomas Appleton was on the line, waiting to speak to me.

Are you sure he doesn’t want my father, Milly?”

“No, Archy. He asked for Mr. Archy McNally.”

“Put him on,” I said, not without a flutter of apprehension.

The Appleton family were to Palm Beach what the Cabots were to Boston and the Astors were to New

York. Thomas was the current patriarch with a son in politics everyone said showed promise. With the Appleton money behind any future campaign, young Troy, I believe that was his name, would no doubt fulfill his destiny. I had seen both father and son around town on a number of occasions and had even watched Troy Appleton on his polo pony in a 22-goal challenge at the Palm Beach Polo and Country Club.

If Thomas Appleton wanted this McNally, he wanted Discreet Inquiries.

If he wanted Discreet Inquiries, there was trouble in paradise. The only question was who had taken a chunk out of the apple, pere or fils

Archy McNally here.”

“Mr. McNally, I hope I’m not intruding.”

“Not at all, sir. How may I help you?”

“I would like to have a word with you at a time and place we can mutually agree upon.”

This meant that he did not want to come to the McNally Building or meet at one of his clubs and certainly not at mine. It was not an unusual request from one of his ilk. Experience taught me that he had already selected our mutually agreed upon turf so I lobbed the ball gently back into his court.

“I leave the time and place to you, sir.”

“How thoughtful, Mr. McNally. Are you familiar with the Palm Beach Institute of Contemporary Art?”

“I’ve heard of it, certainly, and have been meaning to visit but haven’t got around to doing so.”

“Then your time has come,” Appleton said, ‘and you’re in for a treat.

I’m a patron and often take people around, so our meeting won’t cause raised eyebrows should we chance to be seen. You understand, of course.”

“I do, sir.”

“Lake Avenue in Lake Worth,” he told me. “They open their doors at noon; shall we be among the early birds?”

“We shall, sir.”

“Have a look around and then meet me in the New Media Lounge on the second floor. Until tomorrow, Mr. McNally.”

As you sow, so shall you reap. With the likes of Ursi and Jamie scattering the seed there was no doubt that I had just gleaned Gillian Wright’s natural father. Now three of us were privy to the thirty-year-old secret. I had told Gillian that learning her father’s identity could be dangerous. A harbinger for Archy? Who said Palm Beach was dull in July?

Before leaving the office I removed the consumer guide from my wastebasket, slapped a yellow Self-Stick note paper on its cover upon which I wrote, “NOT MINE PLEASE RE-DIRECT,” and dropped it in my outbox. That’ll learn him.

I arrived at the Pelican in a buoyant mood only to be cast down to the depths by the sight of an eight-inch-square butcher block with a serrated knife clinging to its side by magnetic force.

“If that’s a housewarming gift for Binky Watrous, I will shave my head and walk barefoot to the shrines of Guadalupe,” I vowed to Priscilla Pettibone, who was displaying the impressive chunk of wood.

“In that suit?” she questioned.

“What’s wrong with this suit, young lady?”

“Nothing, if you’re trying to pass for a neon sign,” she sassed. “And it is for Binky. It’s a chopping block. Very handy for cutting up lemons and limes for drinks and veggies for dinner.”

“Binky will add chopped fingertips to the minestrone. And just how did you come to learn of the charity event to turn Binky’s kitchen into a chef’s nightmare?”

“From Connie,” Priscilla said. “She was in this afternoon, looking for you. Connie has lousy taste in men, in case you haven’t noticed.”

Turning, she sashayed off in her silver mini-and matching top with the assurance that every male eye in the place followed her every move. One day a shrewd fashion photographer will walk into the Pelican and walk out with our Priscilla.

As Mr. Pettibone served my daiquiri I wondered how Connie had gotten word of the Binky fiasco. As if my thought had conjured her up, Connie came into the bar area looking splendid in slim-fitting black pants, spectator heels, and a charmingly buoyant white halter. Her dark hair cascaded to her bare shoulders. Priscilla now had the attention of only half the men in the Pelican. I got a peck on the cheek before Connie took the stool next to me.

“I’ll have whatever he’s having,” she said to Mr. Pettibone.

I lost no time in venting my indignation at what was fast turning into a United Way for Binky Watrous. Triscilla bought Binky a chopping block, Herb in security got him a waffle iron, I have been ordered to purchase a microwave oven et tu, Brute?”

“Oh, oh, the ladies are fawning over Binky and little Archy is having a tempter tantrum.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I said, reaching for my drink.

“Get a life, Archy,” Connie advised, not for the first time.

“No, my dear, it’s a microwave I have to get, remember?” When Connie’s drink arrived I ordered a second.

“Mrs. Trelawney told me you were acting like a two-year-old over this.” She took a sip of her drink and proclaimed it “Delicious.”

“You spoke to Mrs. Trelawney and she invited you to join the magi bearing gifts.”

“Yes. I called you this afternoon and when you didn’t answer I tried Mrs. Trelawney. She told me you had gone to lunch so I came here looking for you.”

“As a matter of fact,” I said, “I was lunching at The Breakers.”

“In that suit?” Connie exclaimed as if I had gone to lunch in my birthday suit.

“What’s wrong with this suit?” Actually I was getting bored with both the question and my response. I took refuge in my second frozen daiquiri.

“I bet you were the only man at The Breakers in pink,” Connie wagered.

“I was the only man at The Breakers who didn’t look like every other man in the joint.” Feeling the need I pulled out my English Ovals and lit one. “And don’t tell me you thought I had given these up,” I warned.

“Okay, I won’t. And, for your information, I’m thinking of getting Binky bedding, twin size, I’m told.”

“Don’t you think that’s rather intimate, Connie?”

“I’m not going to share them with him. My God, Archy, you are acting like a spoiled brat and you know what I think?”

“No. Nor do I care to.”

That didn’t stop her. “I think you’re jealous,” she accused.

I almost jumped off my stool. “Jealous. Moi, jealous of Binky Watrous. Are you out of your Iberian mind?”

Connie smiled the smile she had smiled when she shared her eggs Benedict with me at Testa’s. This was not going well. I pulled on my English Oval for comfort and, as always, it did not disappoint. Was anything enjoyable also good for you? Sex? Yes, sex is indeed both enjoyable and healthy. Proof? I had read of a great sultan who kept a harem of one thousand wives. Every night he sent his faithful servant to select one to share his bed chamber. The faithful servant died at the age of fifty. The sultan lived to one hundred. Conclusion? It’s the chase, not the act, that does a man in. Later, in the quiet of Connie’s condo, we would discuss bedding.

“Let’s face it, Archy. Binky is ten years your junior…”

“Nine,” I said.

Ten,” she said. “He’s setting up his own household as most of us do when we reach our majority. Before you know it he’ll be married and settled down.”

Those two sentences were rampant with not so thinly disguised innuendo.

Connie was treading on thin ice and she knew it. I was spared defending my puritanical ethics and my chance for a romantic interlude by the arrival of Mrs. Pettibone, bearing a dish of shrimp surrounding a paper cup of spicy red sauce.

“Compliments of the chef,” Jasmine Pettibone said as Connie and I helped ourselves to what the Italians call il sap ore di mare, or the fruit of the sea. The little crustaceans were carefully shelled, perfectly prepared, and absolutely succulent. Leroy’s sauce lost nothing in the transfer from bottle to paper cup. Fresh shrimp is one of the rewards of living not too many miles from the Gulf of Mexico.

Addressing me, Mrs. Pettibone said, “Simon told you about Lyle, my cousin’s boy, out in California.”

I answered that he had and went on to say, “I have no idea what it’s all about. Any further developments?”

“What’s all this?” Connie said, momentarily distracted from Leroy’s offering by the promise of gossip. Momentarily, and not a nanosecond more.

As I related to Connie as much as I knew, Simon Pettibone joined us from his side of the bar.

“Henry Peavey,” Connie said, shaking her head. “Doesn’t mean a thing to me. What about you, Archy?”

As I told Mr. Pettibone, it means nothing to me either.”

Huddled around the plate of shrimp we might have been participants in a taste-test happening. It did occur to me that Mrs. Pettibone had intended to pass the goodies around to the other early diners just beginning to arrive at the club, but if Connie and Mrs. McNally’s favorite son didn’t keep their hands off the pickin’s she would have to abort her mission.

“There are more developments, Archy,” Mr. Pettibone declared with a glance at his wife.

Jasmine Pettibone had been blessed with a particularly aristocratic bearing that had served her well. Now displaying what is politely called a full figure, and with streaks of gray in her hair, it was still un mistakenly clear from whence came Priscilla’s lovely face and form.

“Lyle’s daughter called this morning,” Mrs. Pettibone told us. “She heard from her father.”

“So,” I said, ‘the mystery is solved.”

“Hardly,” Mrs. Pettibone said. “Lucy she’s Lyle’s daughter wasn’t home when his call came. He left a message on her answering machine.”

“Saying what?” Connie asked. Now she, too, seemed to be caught up in the mystery of Henry Peavey.

“Saying that he had arrived and was making contacts, and that it just occurred to him to tell Lucy not to answer any questions or make any statements to the press should they try to contact her,” Mrs. Pettibone stated with a resolute nod of her head.

I said, “And that’s it?” at the same time Connie said, “The press?”

Mr. Pettibone gave us both a nod. “And don’t ask where he arrived at because he didn’t say.”

“He originally told his daughter he was going south,” I reminded the Pettibones.

“South of Sacramento goes all the way to the Argentine,” Connie informed us. Consuela Garcia is practical to a fault.

“The plot certainly thickens,” I told them. “Well, keep us posted. I’d like to know what Lyle has gotten up to.”

“So would I,” Mrs. Pettibone answered.

The club was starting to fill, but I noticed that our favorite corner table was still vacant. “What’s Leroy tempting us with this evening?”

A crown roast,” Mrs. Pettibone announced as she moved away with the remainder of the shrimp.

Leroy’s crown roast is a couple of rib sections of a loin of lamb arranged in a circle and roasted with strips of bacon wrapped around the lower section and also covering the ends of the rib bones, to prevent them from being scorched while cooking. Stuffing the cavity of the crown is optional, but I knew that Leroy’s recipe called for an apple-and-raisin filling held together with cubed country bread and garnished with mace, sage, nutmeg, garlic cloves, and enough melted butter to soften a stone. When served, the tips of the rib bones are decorated with paper frills. Truly a feast for a king and therefore aptly named.

Picking up our drinks I led Connie to our table and once settled I noticed the attractive diamond earrings and bracelet she wore. When I complimented her on her expensive taste she laughed and said, “You like them? They’re part of my collection of summer diamonds.”

Now Palm Beach is the land of in-your-face ostentatious ness but summer diamonds? Tray tell, what are summer diamonds?” I asked.

Thrilled with the chance to show her smarts, Connie blurted, “Some-are diamonds and some-are not. Get it?”

“I’ll pretend this conversation never took place, if you promise never to call costume jewelry by any other name.”

“The earrings are real, the bracelet is not, for your information,” she said, not hiding her displeasure. “You get so uppity when you break bread at ritzy diners. Were you at The Breakers with Sabrina Wright?”

“So you’ve heard?”

“Who hasn’t? Mrs. Marsden told Madam you were on the case,” Connie said.

Mrs. Marsden is Lady Cynthia’s housekeeper and a confidant of our Ursi’s. Do you begin to see how Thomas Appleton got the message?

“As a matter of fact, Archy, Sabrina Wright was one of the reasons I wanted to see you today.”

“Really? And I thought you were pining to see me. Don’t tell me you want an autographed book.”

“No. Madam wants to meet her,” she said.

“So does half the world, I would imagine. What’s Lady C’s interest?”

Connie rolled her eyes toward the Pelican’s ceiling, which was in need of a paint job. “It’s got to do with her latest project.”

Lady Cynthia Horowitz had two passions in life: young, handsome, male proteges (and she’s a septuagenarian) and projects. She has championed the cause of nesting plovers, humpback whales, bald eagles, and hirsute violinists. Her last brainstorm was an ingenious scheme to install Art Nouveau pissoirs on Worth Avenue. Really!

Cartier, Tiffany, Hamilton, and Verdura, among other local merchants, were appalled at the idea, but I understand many older gentlemen who spend countless hours trailing after their wives on that boulevard of expensive and useless merchandise joined Lady C’s committee in earnest.

Priscilla breezed by and asked us if we were having the special. We were and I ordered a bottle of cabernet sauvignon to go with the meal.

Then I said to Connie, “Okay, let’s have it. What has your boss got the wind up over this week?”

“She’s going to write her memoirs,” Connie announced unhappily. “She thought she might get some helpful hints from Sabrina.”

Her memoirs, was it? The lady had lived a long life, had had at least as many husbands as fingers on her right hand, all rich and one titled.

She was a living Sabrina Wright novel. Did she imagine a book-signing party at the Classic Bookshop on S. County Road where the couturier and graphic artist Michael

Vollbracht recently appeared to push the reissue of his book Nothing Sacred? The dishy primer is famous for Vollbracht’s sketch of the late Marjorie Merriweather Post holding up a box of Grape-Nuts.

No one knew more about sex, money, and manipulation than Lady Cynthia Horowitz and I said as much. “There’s nothing Sabrina can teach the Madam, Connie. She’s been there, done that, and lived to tell about it. Besides, I’m off the case.”

“So soon?” Connie seemed surprised.

“Yeah. I found her daughter and the guy she ran off with.” It was a slight exaggeration, but who… found whom was now a moot question and when in doubt, take the credit, I always say.

“Madam doesn’t believe the man that got away was Sabrina’s daughter’s lover,” Connie said. “Nor do I.”

Nor do Thomas Appleton, do he? I kept that to myself, however. With Connie I often share and confide, but given the dramatis personae of this charade I immediately decided to play my hand close to the vest.

Besides, I still was not sure what Thomas Appleton wanted to see me about. Not contemporary art, that’s for sure.

“And who does Madam think the guy is?” I asked.

“Sabrina’s young and gorgeous lover,” Connie gushed.

That figures.