McNally's luck

17

I breakfasted with my parents on Tuesday morning. Peaches sat patiently alongside the dining room table, and when I gave her a hunk of brioche, she nibbled it daintily, a perfect lady. Mother was delighted with her. We had had no animal in the family since Max, our golden retriever, died, and I wondered aloud if we might invite a pup, perhaps a Dandie Dinmont, to join our menage. Father promised to consider the suggestion.

After breakfast I drew him aside and gave him an abbreviated account of the police action the previous night.

"Then Otto is dead?" he asked when I had finished.

"Definitely."

"And the son is in custody?"

"That's correct, sir. And also Mrs. Irma Gloriana.

I expect Al Rogoff will be questioning them today."

He nodded. "I'd like to speak to the sergeant," he said. "Do you think he could come over this evening?"

"I'm sure he's awfully busy, father, but he might be ready for a break by tonight."

"Ask him," he said. "Tell him it concerns Roderick Gillsworth's holographic will and may possibly affect his investigation."

I knew it would be useless to ask questions, so I told him I'd try to reach Rogoff. Then he departed for the office in his Lexus, and I lifted Peaches into my Miata and headed for the Willigan home. The cat sat upright in her bucket seat, sniffed the morning air, and looked about rather grandly.

I carried her up the Willigans' stoop, but before I had a chance to ring, the door was flung open and Harry rushed out, arms outflung. "Peaches!" he screamed. "Peaches is home!" I swear there were tears in the poor goofs eyes.

He reached for his pet, but the cat had other ideas. She leaped from my arms, darted through the opened door, and went scampering down the long corridor. Willigan lumbered after her, shouting, "Sweetums! Sweetums baby! Papa is here! Come to papa, darling!"

Gruesome.

They disappeared, and I entered the house, closing the door behind me. I wandered down the hallway and out onto the back lawn. Laverne was lying supine on a chaise, wearing a hot-pink French-cut bikini. She also had a plastic shield over her eyes.

"Good morning, Laverne," I called as I approached.

She lifted the shield long enough to glance at me, then replaced it. "Hi, Archy," she said in a flat voice.

"I just returned Peaches," I said. "She was recovered last night."

"I know," she said tonelessly. "We heard it on the radio this morning."

"Will you please tell Harry the police have his fifty thousand? They're holding it temporarily as evidence. He'll get it back eventually."

"I'll tell him," she said.

I don't know why I felt sorry for her. One has to pay for one's stupidity in this world-ask me; I know! — and Laverne had certainly behaved stupidly. But I supposed she had her reasons and obviously they were sufficient for her.

"I'll try to keep you out of it," I said, "but I'm not sure it can be done."

"Out of what?" she said in a dead voice.

"Laverne, please," I said. "The police are holding Frank Gloriana. I don't know how much he'll tell them."

"What are you talking about?" she said listlessly.

I sighed and started away. I was almost at the screen door when she called, "Archy," and I turned back. Now she was sitting on the chaise, hunched over, head bowed. She was twirling the eye shield in nervous fingers.

"You really think you can keep my name out of it?" she asked, looking up at me.

"Laverne," I said, "let me be frank. ." Then I caught myself. "Oh lordy," I said, "don't let me be Frank!"

She smiled for the first time.

"Look," I said, "Frank is not a stand-up guy. He's liable to tell the police you talked him into it, that he went along because he was in love with you."

Then she frowned. "That's crazy. How could he say that? The ransom notes were written on his word processor."

"The police already know that. But you did sneak Peaches out of here in her carrier, didn't you?"

"It was a laugh," she said. "Frank needed money, and Harry has plenty. As for Frank being in love with me, that's bullshit. It was just a game with us."

"It's gone sour, Laverne. If Harry finds out, you know what'll happen to you, don't you?"

"Yeah," she said dolefully. "Out on my can. With no pre-nup."

"You took an awful risk," I marveled.

"A girl gets bored," she said, shrugging. "Listen, Archy, if you can keep me out of it, I'll make it worth your while."

And she put her hands behind her, leaned back, crossed her legs. She looked up at me, smiling again. There was a lot of her.

I laughed. "Laverne," I said, "you're incorrigible."

She licked her glossed lips, still smiling. "Think about it," she said.

I got out of there as hastily as I could. I don't care how macho a man claims to be, when a woman says Yes, his first reaction is not desire, it's fear.

I drove away with the feeling that this was going to be Denouement Day with all current problems solved and complexities unraveled. It didn't turn out quite that way, but it came close.

There was a question I wanted to ask Hertha Gloriana, and I thought I knew exactly where to find her. I guided the Miata up to Riviera Beach and within a half-hour I was tapping on the door of Meg Trumble's apartment.

"Why, Archy," she said, "what a pleasant surprise."

The "surprise" I could buy; the "pleasant" was iffy. But she allowed me to enter and, sure enough, Hertha was curled up on the couch. There was a box of Kleenex on the cushion beside her, and she was dabbing at her eyes.

Despite the medium's tears and Meg's rather frosty demeanor, both women looked extraordinarily attractive to me. They were wearing identical short-shorts of white twill with men's work-shirts, the tails knotted about their waists to reveal a few inches of midriff. And they displayed a quartet of splendidly tanned legs.

"Did you hear the news?" Meg demanded. "About Hertha's husband and her in-laws?"

"I heard," I said, nodding. "Have you been to the police, Hertha?"

She shook her head.

"I really think you should," I said gently. "They may want to question you. Ask to speak to Sergeant Rogoff."

"Hertha knows nothing about that cat," Meg said angrily. "I don't see why she should get involved."

I sighed. "Meg," I said, "she is involved. Her husband and mother-in-law have been arrested and her father-in-law shot dead. If she doesn't go to the police, they'll start looking for her. Sooner or later they're sure to find her, and then they'll want to know why she didn't come forward."

"Perhaps I should talk to them," Hertha said timidly. "Meg, will you come with me?"

Meg sat down beside her, put an arm about her shoulders. "Of course I will, darling," she said in a soothing voice. "We'll go together. Who did you say to ask for, Archy?"

"Sergeant Al Rogoff. He's a friend of mine, and I suggest you tell him that you already spoke to me. You'll find him very sympathetic."

"What do you think he'll ask me?" Hertha said.

It was a perfect opportunity to pose my own question. "He'll probably want to know if Roderick Gillsworth came to your office frequently."

The medium looked at me with widened eyes. "What an odd question."

"Well, did he?" I persisted. "Did Gillsworth come to your office and talk to Frank?"

"Several times," she said, nodding. "But they always went into the room where we did our mailings. I don't know what they talked about."

"Just tell Sergeant Rogoff that," I advised. "I'm sure he'll be interested. Hertha, will you be staying here?"

"Of course she will," Meg said definitely. "As long as she wants. Forever, I hope."

The medium turned and embraced the other woman tightly, kissing her on the lips. "Oh sweetheart," she cried, "what would I ever do without you?"

The two were hugging and whispering to each other when I left. I headed for the Pelican Club, hoping a wee bit of the old nasty might help restore my sanity. As I drove, I reflected on the strange convolutions of human behavior.

I could understand Meg's decision. After all, she had been betrayed by a man in a particularly cruel and humiliating manner. But Hertha's actions puzzled me. The married medium who dispensed her kisses so freely seemed a contradiction: she was a very physical spiritualist.

But that, I realized, was occupational stereotyping. Most of us are guilty of it.

For instance, librarians are generally thought to be sexless, dried-up biddies who affect a pince-nez and don rubber gloves before shaking hands with a man. I know from personal experience that this image is totally, totally false. (I wonder what Nancy is doing now?)

So it was really not too surprising to learn that being a psychic did not preclude Hertha from having urges of a more corporeal sort. A horny medium? Well, why not? And if she was subject to nymphomaniacal twinges, who was I, a hapless lothario, to condemn her? And if her nature included a predilection for sapphic relationships, so be it.

When I walked into the Pelican Club, the radio behind the bar was on, and Vikki Carr was singing "It Must Be Him." It was just too much, and I burst out laughing.

"You seem in a happy mood today, Mr. McNally," Simon Pettibone said.

"Pondering life's ironies, Mr. Pettibone," I said. "It is indeed a mad, mad world."

"But the only one we have," he reminded me.

"A frozen daiquiri, please," I responded.

I left the bar to use the public phone. Of course I called Rogoff, and of course he was unavailable. I slowly sipped my way through two daiquiris, called the sergeant every ten minutes with no results, and finally got through to him on my fifth call. He was brusque, obviously under pressure, and I hurriedly blurted out an invitation to stop by the McNally home that night at nine. "Okay," he said and hung up abruptly.

I had lunch while seated at the bar. Priscilla brought me a jumbo cheeseburger with side orders of french fries and coleslaw. I wolfed this Cholesterol Special with great enjoyment and had an iced

Galliano for dessert. I suspected my arteries might soon require the services of a Roto-Rooter man.

I drove back to Worth Avenue to take up a project I had started days ago and never completed: buying a tennis bracelet for Consuela Garcia. The need for a gift seemed more important now than when the idea had first occurred to me, for I had neglected that marvelous woman shamefully. The morning's encounters with Laverne Willigan, Meg Trumble, and Hertha Gloriana made me realize how important Connie was to me. Vital, one might even say, and I do say it.

I visited four jewelry shops before I found a bracelet that appealed to me: two-carat, cushion-cut diamonds set in 18K gold. It was horribly expensive, but I handed over my plastic gaily, following McNally's First Law of Shopping: If you can afford it, it's not worth buying.

I went directly home, stripped to the buff, and fell into bed for a nap, for I had enjoyed only five hours of shuteye the previous night. Before sleep claimed me, I thought again of my experiences that morning and laughed aloud. I simply could not take them seriously.

It is my conviction that solemnity is the curse of civilization. Think of all the earnest people who have sacrificed themselves for gods now forgotten or wasted their lives on causes no one remembers. Laughter is our only salvation. Pray with a giggle and mourn with a smile. And if you happen to believe, as I do, that women are nature's noblest work, know ye that long face ne'er won fair lady.

Thus endeth the scripture according to St. Archy.