McNally's chance

Eight

The next morning I called upon Sofia Richmond once again to get some background information on the Palm Beach Institute of Contemporary Art.

When I’m able, I like to do a little homework before meeting with a new client, if indeed Thomas Appleton would become a client. As he was a patron of the museum it wouldn’t hurt to bone up on its history so as to appear smarter than I am. Who knows, the guy might ask questions.

I didn’t have to delve into the Appleton family closet as its contents were more or less in the public domain. If it contained a skeleton, as I now suspected it did, its name was Sabrina Wright.

The PBICA, as it’s familiarly referred to in print, owes its existence to the philanthropists, Robert and Mary Montgomery. He is a noted attorney. The Montgomerys renovated the Lake Theater, a landmark art deco movie house that now houses the PBICA, after purchasing it from the Palm Beach Community College. The facility formerly held the contemporary art and design collection of J. Patrick Lannan. When the Lannan Foundation relocated the collection to Los Angeles, they donated the building to the college.

The PBICA purports to be a venue for major national and international art in all media and a meeting ground for the diverse populations who live in and visit the Palm Beach region. Who could find fault with that?

I got there minutes after it opened its doors to the public and wondered whom I could bill the three-buck admission charge to Appleton or Sabrina? It was most likely to show up on my expense report as a miscellaneous disbursement, a category that often comprised fifty-five percent of my expenditures, much to Mrs. Trelawney’s chagrin. I ambled around, fascinated with what I looked upon, before making my way to the second floor and the New Media Lounge.

Thomas Appleton was already there, seated before three television screens. He rose when I entered and came to meet me.

“Mr. McNally, thank you for being prompt.” He offered his hand and we shook.

“I glanced at the exhibits before coming up and was most impressed,” I said. “I intend to come back when I can give them more attention.”

“Shall we sit?” When we did Appleton pointed to the screens. “Each shows a video presentation by a current artist. As you can see there is no audio.” Pointing to the earphones on an ultramodern glass-top table, he instructed, “One must use these, which allows for a private viewing. The two computer stations you see are connected to the Internet. With them, visitors are able to surf Web art sites worldwide via a list provided by the museum. The Lounge is the concept of our new director, Michael Rush.”

“The medium is the message,” I quoted.

Thomas Appleton looked like Kriss Kringle, clean shaven and out of uniform. Round face, ruddy complexion, and a shock of white hair combined to give the impression of a jolly gent more inclined to be an insurance salesman than a multimillionaire bon vivant, sportsman, and sidekick of presidents and kings. I had heard he was usually under par on the golf course, but judging from his waistline I would imagine he was more a devotee of croquet than tennis. In Palm Beach, croquet is taken quite seriously with teams competing from other states as well as the land-of-the-game’s origin.

Being early, the New Media Lounge was empty except for us and knowing Appleton wanted to conduct our business as quickly and as privately as possible, I thought it prudent to get down to the particulars before he changed his mind or was spotted by someone he knew, in which case I would have to play the guy who came to service the earphones.

“It’s all very interesting, Mr. Appleton, but not the reason for our meeting,” was how I approached the delicate subject.

“Very true, Mr. McNally, and I respect your directness. Time, as they say, is money.”

I could have said that not being officially in his employ, time was bleeding my wallet, but one didn’t talk that way to an Appleton without being blackballed from places that didn’t solicit my business. It was a no-win situation and one in which I felt very much at home.

“I understand that you represent the author Sabrina Wright,” he finally stated.

“Represented, sir. My business with her has been concluded as of yesterday.”

Was it my imagination or did those ruddy cheeks lose their glow? “Are you saying Sabrina, that is Ms Wright, has found what she came here looking for?”

“I am, sir.”

I knew what the guy was thinking, but did he know I knew? For a moment I thought about putting that heretofore jolly face at ease by telling him he was among friends, but I didn’t know how much Appleton was ready to ‘fess up to, and, more to the point, I had not forgotten my prediction that knowing the identity of Gillian Wright’s father could be dangerous. He had invited me here, therefore the onus was on him to say why he wanted to see me.

In the ensuing silence Thomas Appleton stared at the three television screens as if he were waiting for the commercial to end and the show to begin. He sighed, rolled his shoulders, and finally said, “The girl, Gillian, ran off with a man, came here, and Sabrina hired you to find them. Is that correct, Mr. McNally?”

It was the story I had spread around but the fact that he was asking for confirmation suggested that he didn’t believe it. No fool, Mr.

Appleton.

With a show of surprise I poured a little oil on the fire and stated,

“You’re familiar with Sabrina’s daughter’s name.” What the hell, I liked the ambiance of the PBICA but I had no intention of spending the entire day here.

To be sure,” he said. “It’s no secret. I mean the woman and her daughter do get their names in the press.”

If he insisted on shadewboxing I would simply leave the ring. “I’m sorry, sir, but client confidentiality is sacrosanct even after I’ve closed the books on a case. If your purpose, for whatever reason, is to learn why Ms Wright hired me I’m afraid I’ll have to abort this meeting.” I half rose to prove my resolve.

Appleton restrained me with a hand on my elbow. “Of course, Discreet Inquiries. Friends have told me the name factually delineates your work ethics. My compliments, Mr. McNally. But the truth of the matter is, I did ask you here for just that reason.”

“Then I can see no further reason to continue this game of cat and mouse, Mr. Appleton. It’s been a pleasure, I’m sure.”

“Oh, not so fast,” he again held out a restraining hand. “Can we make a deal, Mr. McNally?”

With a shrug I countered, “That depends, sir. What’s in it for me?”

He smiled. “I like you, Mr. McNally. I like you very much. I even like your white cotton trousers and your red-and-white-striped hop sack jacket. I hope it starts a trend.”

“If it does, Mr. Appleton, I will give the ensemble to Goodwill. I like to think of myself as one of a kind.”

Now he laughed with gusto. “And judging from your ethics, Mr. McNally, you are just that.”

Without a pause I said, “But it’s my ethics you want to compromise, Mr.

Appleton.”

“So it is. Will you hear me out?”

“Only a fool refuses to listen, sir. What are you putting on the table?”

“A thirty-year-old secret. Interested?”

And what must I give in return, sir?”

“First, your word that you will never repeat what I tell you and, second, you will tell me if Sabrina Wright’s visit to Palm Beach has anything to do with that secret. Deal?” He actually held out his hand which I shook, for the second time that day.

“Deal,” I responded.

He took a deep breath and exhaled the words, “Gillian Wright is my natural daughter.” With that he raised his eyes upward as if he expected the ceiling of the New Media Lounge to come down upon us in retribution for either his productivity or his confession thereof. It didn’t.

“This is not Sabrina’s first visit to our Island,” he expanded on his confession. “She was here some thirty years ago when we were both students. It was labeled spring break and Fort Lauderdale was the hot spot for that holiday. As I recall it was a hundred and ten in the shade and very drunk out. Sabrina and I had what some poet called a brief encounter.” “Playwright, sir. Noel Coward,” I corrected.

“Playwright or poet, the result was Gillian,” he said.

To add a little romantic nostalgia to the tale I asked, “Was Sabrina very beautiful, sir?”

“Let’s say she was available, Mr. McNally.”

“Please, sir, call me Archy.”

“And you call me Tom.”

There is nothing like talk of sexual transgressions and ethics bashing to evoke intimacy between men of good breeding. Having melted the ice we fell into the drink and went with the floe.

“I’m afraid, Tom, the reason for Sabrina’s visit has much to do with your brief encounter.”

He nodded as if resigned to his fate. “I thought so,” he said. “I am not an insensitive man, Archy, and I didn’t exactly leave Sabrina in the lurch. In fact, monetarily speaking, she was far better off after our brief encounter, believe me.”

Now that he had opened up to me I saw no reason to pretend I didn’t already know his secret. Also, certain that Appleton would never talk to anyone about this conversation I felt I wasn’t compromising my former client’s position by revealing facts of which Tom Appleton was already painfully aware. “She told me as much,” I revealed, ‘and I’m not one to cast the first stone.”

“She told you everything?” he asked.

“Everything but your name. She did not divulge that.”

“So if I hadn’t called you, you would never know…”

His voice died away and he shook his head woefully. “What fools we mortals be,” he lamented. Then, perhaps to rationalize his actions, he added, “I couldn’t take that chance, I had to know what she’s up to.

I’m a widower, Archy, and I would now gladly acknowledge Gillian and to hell with what anyone might say, but such a move could prove disastrous for those innocent of any wrongdoing. You know my son is involved in state politics?”

“So I’ve heard, and with a bright future, they say.”

Appleton started in his chair. “More than bright. There’s talk of a run for the Senate, the U.S. Senate, that is, within the next four years. Any hint of a scandal would cause his backers to run scared.”

“He has nothing to do with the brief encounter,” I said.

“But he has everything to do with me, and in politics guilt by association is a fact, not a figure of speech.”

“I assume your son is happily married,” I ventured.

“He’s married, Archy, that’s for sure. She’s photogenic, and that seems to make them both happy. She’s given him the requisite number of children, boy and girl, employs no staff off the books, subscribes to no less than four charities, the recipients of which are Asian Americans, African-Americans, Native Americans, and Hispanic Americans, and she wears her hair in the style of the late Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis. They’re what the pols call a dream couple and I don’t intend to turn the dream into a nightmare.” In the manner of a harassed executive being confronted with a hostile takeover he leaned toward me and pleaded, “What the hell does Sabrina want, Archy?”

“Only to protect you,” I assured him.

I believe that we humans come equipped with a sixth sense that, at this early stage of our evolution, we cannot access at will, but the uncanny thing does make itself known for no discernable reason at the oddest of moments. This was one of them. Call it intuition, inspiration, instinct, precognition, or plain old gut feeling, but when I spoke those words to Thomas Appleton I knew as sure as I was sitting in the New Media Lounge of the PBICA that Sabrina’s mission was to protect herself first, and Thomas Appleton only as long as it didn’t jeopardize her position.

Why was she so unyielding in her determination to keep the name of Gillian’s father a secret? Because of the deal she had struck with Appleton? I no longer believed that. In fact my gut feeling said Sabrina Wright didn’t give a dam for Thomas Appleton per se after all these years, yet she was willing to sacrifice her daughter’s affection, such as it was, to protect him. This was not the stratagem of a survivor.

Appleton’s eyes searched my face like a child wanting to believe in the tooth fairy when common sense, and the kid next door, told him it was all a crock. Tom,” I said, “Sabrina knows your name and address, correct?”

“Sure,” he answered.

“Therefore she didn’t hire me to find you. Correct?”

“I know all that, Archy, but who’s the man that got away?” he questioned.

Never had so many been so concerned over five words from a gossip column that didn’t mean a thing to anyone, including the columnist. I explained their meaning to Appleton as best I could and gave him what I believed to be their source.

Still skeptical he said, “Sabrina came down here looking for her husband?”

Having reached the point of no return, I told Appleton exactly why Sabrina had come to Palm Beach, reiterating yet again, “She’s here to protect you, Tom.” Of course, what I had to say didn’t alleviate his fears, it just shifted them from mother to daughter.

I hate to hear a grown man moan, but that is exactly what Thomas Appleton did when he heard my story. Or should that be Sabrina’s story? “She told Gillian the truth?”

In our society what passes for the truth is usually the lie everyone agrees upon hence Appleton’s incredulity. He couldn’t agree with her less. Sabrina had broken the commandment and reprisal was swift and exacting. Gillian and Zack go after the Holy Grail, Silvester and Sabrina follow to make sure they don’t find it, Lolly runs a blind item and Archy is toe-to-toe with an Appleton in the New Media Lounge of the PBICA. You go figure.

And another county is heard from. Good grief, Zack Ward. I almost forgot about him. If Appleton thought he had reached the nadir of this conversation I had a bulletin for the old bean.

“Sabrina didn’t disclose your identity to Gillian,” I insisted. “In fact she’s down here to make certain that Gillian does not learn who you are. I can tell you that Sabrina is determined that Gillian, or anyone else for that matter, will never know you are Gillian’s father.

Her sole concern is protecting your anonymity, Tom.”

“Why?” he wondered.

Two minds with but a single thought. Appleton was having as much trouble as yrs. truly trying to figure out Sabrina’s munificence. My job was to placate not incite the man so I answered, “Because she entered into a pact with you…”

“For which she was well paid, believe me.”

The rich can’t resist reminding you of the fact. Be that as it may, I went on, “She’s holding up her end, as agreed.”

Still perplexed, he groused, “Whatever induced her to tell Gillian the truth? It was my understanding at the time that the infant would be put up for adoption and then Sabrina would adopt her. It was the most expedient thing to do at the time and, lord knows, it’s worked for others. Why? And why now?”

I told him what Sabrina had told me. “She doesn’t like Zack Ward, the guy Gillian is dating and getting serious about, and she thought the girl would be more receptive to the advice of her flesh-and-blood mother.”

Appleton frowned, “Now she and her boyfriend are down here looking for her flesh-and-blood papa. It’s bizarre.”

“Not really,” I protested. “If you learned your father was not your real father, wouldn’t you be curious to know who was?”

“Archy, my father was one of the richest men in the world. If someone told me he wasn’t really my father I would tell that SOB. to bug off.”

Hey, the guy had a point.

“And just who the hell is this Zack Ward anyway?” he nearly bellowed.

Were this a film I would yell, “Cut!” and we would break for lunch.

This would give me time to compose a response that would not cause Thomas Appleton’s heart to pause for an unhealthy period of time. This not being the case, I had no choice but to keep the camera grinding and hope for the best. “I was meaning to tell you about Zack,” I said. “I believe he’s a reporter for a trashy tabloid.”

Appleton’s cheeks glowed to a point where I feared spontaneous combustion would turn his head into a burning bush. He opened his mouth but gasps, not words, emerged. “Can I get you some water, Tom?”

Closing his eyes he answered slowly and sincerely, “I don’t suppose you have any cyanide on you.”

“Afraid not, Tom. But let’s be realistic. As we speak, Sabrina is talking those two into returning to New York and she will never reveal your name to them or anyone else,” I repeated for good measure. And that should settle it.”

“That should settle it?” He mimicked. “Archy, that’s what Chamberlain said when he got back from Munich.”

He had a point there, too.

As if thinking aloud, Appleton reasoned, “If Sabrina told Gillian the true story of her birth because Sabrina thought it would work to her advantage, what would stop her from revealing my name to the girl for the same reason?”

Point number three, and he took the set. “It’s a fear you may have to live with, Tom,” I said.

“I do not and I will not.” He spoke like a man used to getting his way regardless of the consequences. “Where is Sabrina, Archy?”

“They’re all bedded down at The Breakers,” I told him.

“I’m going to call and meet with her.”

“Do you think that’s wise?”

“No, but I have to impress upon her that I will go to any length to protect myself and my family from any scandal.”

There was that menacing phrase again and I didn’t like it. I didn’t like it one stinking iota.