McNally's chance

Nine

Given the amount of time and energy I was putting into a case that was closed and a family affair that was none of my business, “The Man That Got Away’ could now be retitled “The Man Who Wouldn’t Go Away.” I didn’t owe Sabrina Wright a thing but couldn’t resist one last conversation with the lady to warn her of the imminent call from her former, if brief, lover. If nothing else, it would be interesting to see what her reaction would be to hearing from him after all these years — and to my being a third party to their little secret.

Did I also want to impress upon her my unique ability to ferret out the most obscure Palm Beach mysteries without really trying? Sure. I might even turn up in a Sabrina Wright novel as a PI named Danny Desire.

I made the call from my office, asking the desk at The Breakers for Mr.

Robert Silvester. It worked. I was immediately connected to his suite and doubly rewarded with the now familiar sound of Sabrina’s deep-throated, “Hello.”

“Archy McNally here,” I announced.

“Mr. McNally, what a coincidence. We were just talking about you,”

Sabrina said.

“I take it you are not alone.”

“No. Robert is with me. Why do you ask?”

“I want to pass on a bit of information that is intended for your ears only.”

There was a pause during which I thought I could hear a sharp intake of breath, or was there static on the line? “Is your daughter with you?”

Now there was no mistaking the anxiety in her voice when she answered,

“No. She and Zack are out hunting.”

Was it open season on runaway fathers? And just how did one go about tracking down a man you had never seen and didn’t even know existed until a few weeks ago? “I hope they’re not knocking on the doors of the local gentry. The people in these parts don’t take kindly to nosey strangers. They’re apt to shoot first and ask questions later.”

“I believe they went to the local library to scan the newspapers dating back to nine months before Gillian’s birthday. Clever, don’t you think?”

I thought it was rather dumb and from the mocking inflection in Sabrina’s delivery, so did she. The young people’s endeavor did prove just how hopeless poor Gillian’s chances were of finding her father after a trail gone cold for thirty years. Did she expect to turn up an item listing all the couples who had engaged in sexual congress in southern Florida nine months before her birth? “I take it you haven’t been able to talk her into abandoning the search and going home.”

“You take it right, Mr. McNally, but I’ve made them an offer they might find hard to turn down,” she boasted.

Did this family never tire of bartering their lives away? “May I know what it is?”

“Certainly,” she answered with an enthusiasm that was far too coy to be genuine. “I will give Zack an exclusive interview for his rag if he and Gillian will give up this asinine charade. Believe me, Mr.

McNally, it’s against all my principles to be misquoted in a lousy tabloid, but if it gets Gillian off the scent, I’ll do it.”

Whoever would have thunk it? Sabrina, sacrificing her principles for the sake of a one-night stand. Noblesse oblige or noblesse desperate?

This was bad news for Tom Appleton.

“What will you disclose in the interview?” I asked.

“As little as possible,” she said. I’ve had practice in saying nothing to the press in several thousand words. If he dares mention Gillian’s father I will deny everything.”

Right now the odds seemed to be with Tom but Sabrina clearly wanted to see the last of this charade, as she termed it, and the lady was at the end of her tether, which was never very long.

I gave her my professional but, uncalled-for opinion on her offer.

“Judging from what Gillian told me, I doubt she will allow Zack to accept, tempting as it may be.”

“Of course,” Sabrina exclaimed like a doting mother, ‘you met the children. What do you think of them?”

“Like I said, I think they’re two very determined people. You would do well, Ms Wright, to go back to new York and leave them to their groping in the dark. Sooner or later they’ll come home, sadder but wiser.”

“And more angry than ever,” she cried. “And estranged from me forever, I dare say. No, that would never do. We must resolve this thing here and now, Mr. McNally, and go back home together, as a family. A happy family. In short, Gillian must acquiesce to my better judgment and resign herself to playing out the hand she was dealt, as I was forced to do.”

This woman was in possession of a pair of cojones that would put the Dallas Cowboys to shame. Like Frank Sinatra, Sabrina Wright did it her way, and pity the daughter who refused to acquiesce. And now here comes Archy, the bearer of news that might help or hinder her case Appleton’s case? Gillian’s case? or none of the above? Not having a stake in the matter I rolled the dice, knowing they were loaded.

“I said I had something to tell you, Ms Wright.”

“So you did. And just what is it that’s meant for my ears alone? My bill?”

“That will come in the mail,” I promised. “You are going to get a phone call, Ms Wright. I pass this on as I believe I owe it to you as a former client. He is going to call. Very soon, I expect.”

“He? I don’t follow, Mr. McNally. Who is he?”

“He is Gillian’s father.”

If early I thought I had detected a sharp intake of breath when I mentioned the reason I was calling, I now heard the most horrific sound known to our species silence. I waited a good minute before I asked, Are you there, Ms Wright?”

“I take it you’re not joking,” she said.

“No, ma’am. He is going to call you.”

“How do you know this, may I ask?”

“You may,” I said. “I know this because he told me so.”

A pause. She was thinking, but unable to see her face I had no idea what she was thinking. “Mr. McNally, I demand to know how all this transpired.”

“It was that blind item in the paper. Remember? He thought you were down here looking for him. He contacted me, we met, and Bob’s your uncle.”

“We can do without the levity,” she cautioned, employing the royal pronoun. And just how the hell did he know you were involved on my behalf?”

She was seething and running scared. Like Chauncey’s common face and noble tail, this, too, was a lethal combination. I’m afraid I can’t tell you that, Ms Wright, without giving away the tricks of my trade.”

“Damn your tricks, mister. You tell me what you know or I’ll sue you from here to hell and back again.”

I heard a voice in the background that I assumed to be Silvester’s wanting to know what was happening. Without bothering to cover the phone’s mouthpiece with her hand in the time-honored tradition, Sabrina told her husband to ‘shut up.” A moment later she was back on my case.

“Did you hear me?” she shouted.

“Let’s not lose our heads, Ms Wright. You hired me to do a job and in the course of my investigations on your behalf, I was approached by this individual. Still acting on your behalf, I told him just why you were in Palm Beach. The truth, Ms Wright. I told him the truth or should I say, I told him what you told me?”

“What are you getting at?” She was practically ranting. A stratagem I would never have attributed to the fair Ms Frigidaire. Was her hair in disarray? Doubtful. But I bet Silvester’s was.

To be sure, her response spoke volumes. “I’m getting at nothing,” I lied, ‘but before you have your attorney present me with papers just remember who I will call to bear witness on my behalf.”

That did it. The tornado fizzled into a languid breeze. “Mr. McNally, forgive me. You must understand what’s happening here. Without warning I get a call telling me I am about to hear from someone I have not seen or heard from in thirty years. Someone with whom my emotional involvement led to dire consequences. Is it any wonder I lost my cool?”

“No, ma’am. But don’t blame me. I thought I was being helpful.”

“You are, Mr. McNally. You are.” She had it all together once again and like a good general was now sensibly getting the lay of the land.

“What does he want? Did he say?”

“He wants to make sure that you will never betray him.”

“Didn’t you tell him I was down here for that very purpose?”

I told her I had done just that. “But he’s worried. He’s most upset that you told Gillian her point of origin.”

“So am I. I made two mistakes in my lifetime,” she philosophized. “One was opening my heart, the other was opening my mouth. I parlayed the first to my advantage and I will not allow the second to negate what I worked to achieve. I thought Gillian would be more sensible about my plight and empathize with what I had done for her. Instead, she insists on going against my wishes and digging up the past. It is not acceptable, Mr. McNally.”

It would never occur to Sabrina Wright that had she been a more empathetic mother, Gillian might not be obsessed with finding her father whom she hoped might give her the love Sabrina had forgot to include along with fancy Swiss finishing schools and a generous monthly allowance.

I, too, had made a mistake. Calling the lady to warn her of the voice from the past with which she would have to deal in the immediate future. Instead of a thank you I got flak, which just shows to go you that the most perceptive seer of the twentieth century was the great Dorothy Parker who preached: The do-gooders of the world are the louses of the world. Case closed.

“Mr. McNally,” my nemesis said, ‘can you assure me that no one else on our planet knows who he is?”

“If they do, they didn’t hear it from me, and they never will.”

Not able to let go until she had tried one more time, she questioned,

“And you will not tell me what compelled said person to call you?”

“No, ma’am. I will not.”

“Then I think our business is concluded, Mr. McNally. I will deal with my friend.” Getting in the last word, she bid me, “Good day. I wish I could say it has been a pleasure.”

Bitch was the only word that came to mind as I dropped the phone. I wondered how much of our conversation she was going to repeat to Silvester. I would imagine he had heard enough to know what was afoot, and wasn’t he as curious as Gillian to know the name of his wife’s former lover? That name, by the bye, never passed our lips the whole time we talked, a fact that was going to soon boomerang and hit Archy on the back of his unsuspecting noodle.

“I will deal with my friend,” Sabrina had said. The irresistible force was going to go head-on with the immovable object. Who, or what, would give remained to be seen. I would have to go head-on with Lolly Spindrift when I reported that the exclusive I had promised him with Sabrina Wright was off. That would cost me a fortune in willing and dining to appease his rage.

Speaking of which, I was in need of a drink and what I got was Binky Watrous and the afternoon mail.

“Well, if it isn’t Hannah Homemaker, in person. What’s new at the trailer court, young man?”

With a fervent gushing I found boring, if not offensive, Binky informed me in great detail. Binky does not understand that a simple “How are you?” is a greeting, not a question.

“I signed my lease and Mrs. Rutherford gave me a key and a coffee mug with my name on it. Compliments of the Palm Court.”

Compliments of the management? Did everyone at the Palm Court have a coffee mug with their name on it? Al Rogoff had never mentioned owning such a piece of crockery but then there was much the sergeant didn’t admit to. “And when does the actual move take place?” I asked as if I cared.

“I already started, Archy. I brought my shaving gear over this morning and most of my clothes. I’m going to sleep over tonight.”

Not without his Victoria’s Secret collection, I bet. The shaving gear brought to mind the mustache Binky used to sport when he was in love with a girl who fancied men with hairy upper lips in the tradition of Gable and William Powell. Binky’s was a pale blond affair that was all but invisible except when it got rained on. Then it resembled the tassels of a wilted ear of corn.

And I introduced myself to some of my neighbors,” he gushed on like a garden hose that had sprung a leak.

I foresaw a mass exodus from the Palm Court that might cause the waters of Lake Worth to part. “What neighbors?” I asked as if I cared, and I did.

“Bianca Courtney.” This was accompanied by a grin that brought to mind a cat who has just moved next door to a creamery. “Do you remember her, Archy?”

I pretended to ponder the question before answering, “Vaguely. A chubby thing with a poor complexion.”

“No way, Archy. Bianca is a dish. She invited me in for a cup of coffee.”

Wasn’t that nice. Please understand that for obvious reasons Binky and I have never competed for the affections of a lady fair and I wasn’t about to start now. That said, the memory of a pretty lass getting into her Mercedes is something that sticks to your ribs, like a hearty breakfast of eggs and porridge. And, as Binky didn’t stand a chance with this one I saw no reason to withdraw in his favor.

“Did she have a mug with her name on it?” I wanted to know.

“No, Archy. We drank from proper china cups, with saucers. Bianca is a lady.”

Saucers certainly attested to good breeding. Could she be the victim of impoverished gentry, hence the motor court digs and the job as companion to a rich old lady? In short, a latter-day Jane Eyre? If so, Binky Watrous was not her Mr. Rochester and the Palm Court was no Thornwood. Picking up the packet of envelopes Binky had deposited on my desk, I made a show of looking for one that was affixed with a first-class stamp. And what did you and the lady discuss, Binky? The joys of living in a corridor?”

A bit sheepishly, or so I thought, he said, “As a matter of fact, Archy, your name came up over the coffee and croissants.”

Croissants? Not Jane Eyre, but Julia Child. Bless her heart. Binky was about as subtle as the writing on a latrine wall. Al Rogoff had told us of Bianca’s quandary and even chanced that we were at the Palm Court at her bidding. To impress his neighbor, Binky had told her that his best friend ran Discreet Inquiries, explained its function, and, no doubt, hinted that he was in some way associated with the agency.

What did I think of all this? I loved it. Someplace in the back of my wicked, scheming, conniving, and perverted mind I was thinking of just such a ploy to insinuate myself into the confidence, and perhaps the arms, of Bianca Courtney. How, was the question, and lo, Binky was the answer. Unthinking to be sure, but then few of Binky’s actions are accompanied by thought. Conclusion: if Bianca and I hit it off, it’s all Binky’s fault.

To be sure, I wasn’t going to tell him this. Let ‘em squirm was my modus operandi. Wide-eyed, I questioned, “My name? In what connection, pray tell?”

He told, adding, “I mentioned that I often help in your inquiries.”

Just as I suspected. “Really, Binky? Refresh my memory.”

“Well,” he said, ‘remember that party at Manalapan Beach when I drove the pretty girl’s car to your house so you could follow with her in your car?”

And Hobo bit you and you wanted to sue.”

“I was crippled, Archy.”

“You had a scratch on your ankle.”

Leaning on his mail cart as if to accentuate his former injury, he tried again. “What about the time I got a job in the pet store so you could follow up a lead?”

And the parrot bit you.”

Grasping at straws, he uttered, “When your sister was here last Christmas, I took little Darcy to the beach.”

And little Darcy bit you. Let’s face it, Binky, you bring out the feral instincts in man and beast. It could be your cologne.” I stopped him from extolling the merits of Old Spice by returning to the point of this dialogue: “Did you tell Bianca I would call upon her for details of this alleged crime?”

“Sort of. You see, Archy, as much as she wants to hire you, she can’t afford you.”

I nodded my understanding in the grave manner of a doctor telling a patient the operation needed to save his life was priced beyond his means and referring him to the doc’s brother-in-law, who happened to be an undertaker. “There’s no charge for the initial interview; after that we can see what we can do.”

“Like pro bono,” Binky spouted.

A few months of hauling mail in a law office and the guy spoke as if he were delivering scrolls to the Roman senate. “When did you say I might call, Binky?”

“I didn’t, Archy, but I’ll ask her tonight. She’s invited me to dinner, seeing as my kitchen isn’t set up as yet.”

“How neighborly. What’s she making, did she say?”

“Chinese takeout,” Binky blustered like it was the bill of fare at the Ritz.

“With three you get egg roll,” I told him.

“We’ll only be two, Archy.”

Sometimes I wondered if under that head of droopy blond hair there wasn’t a wise guy screaming to get out.