McNally's luck

4

I had suggested to Meg that she dress informally and so she did: Bermuda shorts of blue silk, a tank top the color of sea foam, and a jacket in a muted shepherd's plaid that she wore over her shoulders cape-fashion. All undoubtedly informal, but so elegantly slender was her figure and so erect her carriage that she made even casual duds look as formal as a Givenchy ball gown.

"Smashing," I told her. "Have you ever modeled?"

"I tried once," she said, "but I don't photograph well. I come out all edges and sharp corners. The photographer said I looked like a stack of slates."

"Stupid photographer," I grumbled. "He probably prefers cheeseburgers to veal piccata."

Meg laughed. "Is that the way you think of me? As veal piccata?" "It's a splendid classic dish," I said.

I turned southward and she asked where we were going. I told her I knew a fine restaurant in Fort Lauderdale, and would she mind traveling for about an hour?

"Couldn't care less," she said. "I'm so happy to get out of that house."

"Oh?" I said. "Problems?"

"My brother-in-law," she said. "I can't stand the way he treats Laverne. The man is really a mouthy lout. I don't know how my sister puts up with him."

"Maybe she loves him," I said mildly.

Meg hooted. "Laverne loves the perks of being Mrs. Harry Willigan. But she's paying her dues. I'd never do it. If a man screamed at me the way Harry does, I'd clean his clock."

"I'll remember that."

"See that you do," she said, so solemnly that I couldn't decide if she was serious or putting me on.

I had hoped it would be a pure night, the air crystal, the sky glittering like a Cartier ad in Town amp; Country. But it was not to be. That murky ocean should have warned me; there was a squall brewing offshore, and the cloud cover was thickening.

"I think it's going to rain," Meg said.

"It wouldn't dare," I said. "I planned a romantic evening, and it's hard to be romantic when you're sopping wet."

"Oh, I don't know," she said thoughtfully, which convinced me this woman had depths.

Her prediction was accurate; rain began to spatter when we hit Deerfield Beach, south of Boca Raton. I didn't think it would last long-summer squalls rarely did-but it could be a brief vertical tsunami.

"We can stop and put up the top," I told Meg, "and then continue on to Lauderdale. Or we can take potluck and stop at the first restaurant we see that offers shelter for the car. Which shall it be?"

"You call it," she said.

So we continued on, the Miata hatless and the rain becoming more determined. Then, at Lighthouse Point, I spotted a Tex-Mex joint that had a portico out front. We pulled under just in time to avoid a Niagara that would have left us bobbing in a filled bathtub.

"Good choice," Meg said. "I love chili."

Marvelous woman! Not the slightest complaint that her jacket was semi-sodden and her short hair wetly plastered to her skull. We scampered inside the restaurant, laughing, and at that moment I really didn't care if the Miata floated away in our absence.

It was not the Oak Room at the Plaza. More of a Formica Room with paper roses stuck in empty olive jars on every table. It was crowded, which I took as a good omen. We grabbed the only empty booth available and slid in. Paper napkins were jammed in a steel dispenser, and the cutlery looked like Army surplus. But the glassware was clean, and there was a bowl of pickled tomatoes, mushrooms, and jalapenos, with tortilla chips, for noshing until we ordered.

The menu, taped to the wall, was a dream come true. We studied the offerings with little moans of delight. Dishes ranged from piquant to incendiary, and I reckoned that we might have been wise to wear sweats.

The stumpy waiter who came bustling to take our order had a long white apron cinched under his armpits. He also had a mustache that Pancho Villa might have envied.

"Tonight's spassel," he announced proudly, "is pork loin basted with red mole sauce and served with black bean relish in a tortilla with roast tomato chili sauce. Ver' nice."

"Mild?" I asked him.

"You crazy?" he said.

But we skipped the spassel. Meg relaxed her stricture against red meat to order an appetizer of Kick-Ass Venison Chili. (I am not making it up; that's what it was called.) Her entree was Cajun Seafood Jambalaya (including crawdads) in a hot Creole sauce with garlicky sausage rice.

I went for an appetizer of Swamp Wings (fried frog legs with pepper sauce) and, for a main course, Sirloin Fajita. It was described on the menu as a grilled marinated steak basted with Jack Daniel's and served with sauteed peppers and onions and a lot of other swell stuff, all inflammatory. Meg asked for a diet cola and I ordered a bottle of Corona beer.

"And a stomach pump for two," I was tempted to add, but didn't.

I shall not attempt to describe the actual consumption of that combustible meal. Suffice to say that it was accompanied by gasps, brow-mopping, and frequent gulps of cold diet cola and Mexican beer. Our tonsils did not actually shriek in protest, but my stomach began to glow with an incandescent heat, presaging an insomniac night.

Of more importance to this narrative was our conversation that evening, for it included tidbits of information that would have aided my investigation-if I had had the wit to recognize clues in Meg's casual remarks. But I was too busy gnawing fried frog legs and swilling Corona to pay close attention. Do you suppose S. Holmes ever neglected a case because Mrs. Hudson brought him a plump mutton chop?

"Good news," Meg said, working on her chili. "I found an apartment. I already have the keys. I'm moving in tomorrow."

"Wonderful!" I said. "Where?"

"Riviera Beach. It's just a small place and I only have it till October. But the off-season rent is reasonable. I'm going to fly back to Pennsylvania, pack up more clothes and things, and then drive my Toyota back. Now I'll be able to stop freeloading on my sister."

"And get away from Harry," I added.

"That's the best part," she said. "I'll still see Laverne, of course, but not in that house."

We discussed her hope of becoming a personal trainer to Palm Beach residents seeking eternal youth through diet and exercise. I offered to supply a list of friends and acquaintances who might be potential clients.

"That would be a big help, Archy," she said gratefully. "Laverne has already given me some names, but I need more prospects. How about you?"

I laughed. "I'm really not the disciplined grunt-and-groan type. I try to do a daily swim, as I told you, and I play tennis and golf occasionally. I admit I'm hardly in fighting trim, but regular workouts are not my cup of sake. Too lazy, I suspect. I'm surprised you're willing to accept men as clients. I thought you'd limit your efforts to reducing female flab."

"Oh no," she said. "I'll be happy to train men. As a matter of fact, Harry Willigan has already volunteered to be my first client. But he's not interested in improving his health and fitness."

"No?" I said. "What is he interested in?"

I knew the answer to that, and it was just what I expected.

"Me," Meg Trumble said.

Our entrees arrived and we plunged in.

"I hope your sister isn't aware of her husband's interest," I said.

"Of course she's aware. She trusts me, but secretly she'll probably be relieved to have me out of the house."

That amused me. "If there was anything going on between you and Harry, your moving out wouldn't end it. Facilitate it more likely."

"Well, there's nothing going on," she said crossly, "and never will be. I told you what I think of that man."

"I share your opinion," I assured her. "He can be grim. It's amazing that Laverne puts up with his nonsense."

"Oh, she ignores him as much as she can. And she has other interests. She's taking tennis lessons, and she's very active in local clubs. She's at meetings two or three nights a week. But enough about Laverne and Harry. How are you making out on finding Peaches?"

"Not very well," I said. "No progress at all, except for one oddity that needs looking into."

I thought it would do no harm to tell her about the missing cat carrier. I thought it would surprise her, and that she'd immediately guess what I had already assumed: someone in the Willigan household had stuffed Peaches in the carrier and hauled her away.

But Meg kept her head lowered, picked through the jambalaya for shrimp, and said only: "Oh, I'm sure it will turn up somewhere around the house."

We finished our dinner with scoops of lemon sherbet, which helped diminish the conflagration-but not enough.

"Everything hokay?" the mustachioed waiter asked.

"Fine," I said. "If you don't mind a charred epiglottis."

I paid the tab with plastic and we went out to the Miata. I took along a handful of paper napkins and wiped the seats reasonably dry. The squall had passed, the night air was freshening, and there were even a few stars peeking out from behind drifting clouds.

"Yummy dinner," Meg said. "Thank you. I really enjoyed it."

"We must dine there again," I said. "Perhaps after the turn of the century."

The drive home was a delight. We sang "It Ain't Gonna Rain No Mo' " and several other songs of a more recent vintage. Meg had a throaty alto, and I thought we harmonized beautifully. Then, like an idiot, I suggested we do "Always," and she started weeping again. Not heaving sobs; just a quiet cry.

"Sorry," I said.

"Not your fault," she said, sniffling. "It's memories. I'll get over it."

"Of course you will," I said, not all that sure.

But she shook off the brief attack of the megrims and, spirits restored, began describing her new apartment. Suddenly she stopped.

"Hey, Archy," she said, "would you like to see it? It's not too late, is it?"

"Not late at all," I said, "and I'd like to see it."

It took a good hour to get back to Riviera Beach, but the weather improved as we drove. It became mellow with a salty breeze, palm fronds rustling, the sea providing a fine background of whispering surf.

It turned out to be the pure night I had hoped for. I wish I could say the same for my thoughts.

Meg now had her own private pad; that was provocative. Even more stimulating was the fact that it was in Riviera Beach, as distant from Connie Garcia's espionage network as I could reasonably hope. The McNally luck seemed to be holding, and I resolved not to waste it. Luck is such a precious commodity, is it not? Especially on a voluptuous night in the company of a young woman whose clavicles drove me mad with longing.

I lied gamely and told Meg how attractive her apartment was. In truth, I found it utterly without charm. It had obviously been furnished as a rental property; everything was utilitarian and designed to withstand rough usage. Nondescript pictures were bolted to the walls and the dinnerware on the open kitchen shelves was white plastic and looked as if it might bounce if dropped.

"Of course it's a little bleak right now," Meg admitted. "It needs some personal things scattered about. But the air conditioner works fine and there's even a dishwasher. I can stand it till October. By that time I hope to have something better lined up."

"I'm sure you will," I said. "Is the phone connected?"

"Not yet. I'll have that done when I return. After I get settled in and fill up the fridge, I hope you'll come over for dinner."

"Love to," I said. "We'll have a housewarming."

She looked at me speculatively. "We could have one right now," she said. "It's a king-sized bed."

"I like to be treated royally," I said.

I feared she might be a white-bread lover. You know: spongy and bland. Men and women who devote all their energies to body-building and no-smoke, no-drink discipline are sometimes incapable of the kinder, gentler arts, like lovemaking.

I needn't have worried about Meg Trumble. Rather than white bread, she was pumpernickel, robust and zesty. She never used her strength to dominate, but I was always aware that her complaisance was voluntary, and so vigorous was her response to my efforts that I reckoned she could, if she wished, twist me into a pretzel.

It is generally thought that highly spiced foods act as aphrodisiacs. But I do not believe our behavior that night on coarse, motel-type sheets can be credited to Kick-Ass Venison Chili and Swamp Wings. I think Meg's fervor was partly inspired by her determination to banish aching memories, and my excitement fed on her passion.

Depleted (temporarily), we stared at each other with pleased recognition: two strangers who had discovered they spoke the same language.

"And you said you weren't in fighting trim," Meg scoffed. "You didn't mention loving trim."

"It was your doing," I told her. "Your beauty and joie de vivre. I rose to the occasion and, with your assistance, shall do so again."

"By all means," she said, moving closer.

It was a bit after midnight when we departed from Riviera Beach and headed homeward. We had tarried in her new apartment long enough to bathe together in a delightfully cramped shower stall, using a sliver of soap as thin as a potato chip. The towels had all the absorbency of alengon, but by that time nothing could lessen our beaming felicity.

I pulled into the driveway of the Willigan estate, crawled out of the car, and went around to open Meg's door. I held out a hand to assist her.

"Thank you for a lovely evening, Miss Trumble," I said, completely po-faced. "The pleasure of your company at dinner was exceeded only by the kindness of your hospitality."

"Thank you, Mr. McNally," she said, just as deadpan. "I trust our paths may cross again."

"A consummation devoutly to be wished," I said, and then we both dissolved and kissed. Lingeringly.

Science defines a kiss as the close juxtaposition of two or more orbicular muscles in a state of contraction. Science has a lot to learn.

I drove home in an ecstatic mood, knowing there would be no insomnia and no nightmares that night. And there weren't. I slept the sleep of the just.

Just exhausted and just content.

I awoke the next morning infected with a galloping case of joie de vivre I had obviously contracted from my companion of the night before. At breakfast, mother commented on my good humor and sought the cause.

"Did you have a pleasant dinner engagement, Archy?" she asked.

"Very."

"Connie?"

"No," I said. "Margaret Trumble, sister of Laverne Willigan. I think I may be in love."

My father uttered a single syllable that sounded suspiciously like "Humph."

I told him I would not be driving to the office with him that morning, as I sometimes did, but would be busy with discreet inquiries.

"Oh?" he said. "The cat?"

"No, sir," I said. "The Gillsworth letter."

He nodded. "The more important of the two. Do you have a lead?"

"Anorexic," I said. "But it's all I have."

He left for the office, mother went out to the greenhouse to bid good morning to her begonias, and I went upstairs to my den. I brought my journal up to date, which didn't take long, and then made a phone call.

"Lady Cynthia Horowitz's residence," she recited. "Consuela Garcia speaking."

"Hi, Connie," I said. "Archy. How about lunch today?"

"Love to," she said, "but can't. I'm working on the madam's Fourth of July bash, and I'm having lunch with the fireworks people."

Her friendly tone was gratifying. Obviously she had not been informed of my dinner date the previous night. And since we had agreed on an open relationship, I saw absolutely no reason to feel guilty. So why did I feel guilty?

"Another time then," I said breezily.

"When?" she asked.

Meg Trumble had said she planned to fly back to King of Prussia, so that romance would be on hold until her return. It seemed an ideal time to reassure Connie that our attachment remained intact.

"Dinner tonight?" I suggested.

"You're on," she said. "How about Tex-Mex food?" For a brief instant my world tottered, but then she went on: "There's a new place in Lantana that's supposed to have great chili. Want to try it?"

"Sounds good to me," I said bravely. "Pick you up around seven?"

"I'll be ready."

"Oh, Connie, one more thing: Did you ever hear of a woman named Mrs. Hertha Gloriana?"

"The seance lady? Of course I've heard of her. A lot of people swear she's a whiz."

"You don't happen to have her address and phone number, do you?"

"No, but I think she's listed in the Yellow Pages."

"The Yellow Pages!"

"Sure. Under Psychic Advisers. Why are you laughing?"

"I don't know," I said. "It just seems odd to have Psychic Advisers listed in the Yellow Pages. I mean, if you had a tumor, would you look in the Yellow Pages for Brain Surgeons?"

"You know, Archy," she said, "you have a freaky sense of humor."

"I guess," I said, sighing. "Thanks, Connie. See you tonight."

I went downstairs to my father's study. All his telephone directories had leather slipcovers. Stodgy? I agree. But you must understand that, to my knowledge, he was the only man in South Florida who wore rubbers when it rained.

There she was in the Yellow Pages, listed under Psychic Advisers: a two-column display ad that stated Mrs. Hertha Gloriana was licensed, bonded, provided "advice and direction," and accepted all major credit cards. It didn't say if she was a Freudian, Jungian, or W. C. Fieldsian.

I decided a personal encounter was preferable to a phone call, so I boarded the Miata and headed for West Palm Beach. That city has seven times the population of the Town of Palm Beach and, as this is written, is in the process of shedding its image as a poor country cousin and enjoying a long overdue rejuvenation.

Mrs. Hertha Gloriana's address was on Clematis Street in an area that was now awash with new office buildings, pricey boutiques, and quaint shoppes of all kinds. It would never be Worth Avenue, of course, but what will?

I had imagined the haunt of a medium would resemble one of those Dracula castles in the cartoons of Charles Addams. But Mrs. Gloriana had a fourth-floor suite in one of the new glass and stainless steel buildings.

Her office was impressive, the large, airy waiting room decorated in mauve and aqua. There was a man seated behind the receptionist's desk. He was idly leafing through a copy of Vanity Fair and didn't look up when I entered. He was about my age, a handsome devil in a dark, saturnine kind of way. And he was dressed beautifully. As you may have gathered, I fancy myself something of a Beau Brum-mell, but this dude made me look like Bozo the Clown.

He was wearing a suit of dove gray flannel that didn't come off a plain pipe rack. His shirt had white French cuffs and a collar wide enough to accommodate a knitted black silk cravat tied in a Windsor knot. The body of the shirt was striped horizontally with lavender bands. What a dandy he was!

He finally looked up. "May I help you, sir?" he inquired pleasantly enough.

"May I speak to Mrs. Gloriana, please."

He smiled. "Do you have an appointment?"

"Afraid not."

"Mrs. Gloriana prefers appointments. Would you care to set a date?"

"No possibility of seeing her now?"

He pursed his lips and appeared to be giving my request serious consideration. "Mrs. Gloriana is busy with a client at the moment. May I ask how you learned of us?"

I didn't believe mentioning the Yellow Pages

would cut much ice. A personal recommendation might prove more efficacious.

"Mrs. Lydia Gillsworth suggested I consult Mrs. Gloriana."

He brightened immediately. "Mrs. Gillsworth. Of course. A charming lady."

He stood and came from behind the desk. He was a tall one and lean as a fencer. He was wearing, I noted, a heavy ring of Navaho silver set with a large turquoise in the expensive sky-blue shade.

"I'm Frank Gloriana," he said. "Hertha's husband."

We shook hands. He had a hard, bony grip.

"Archibald McNally," I said. "Happy to meet you."

He stared at me a moment. "McNally?" he repeated. "The law firm across the lake?"

"That's correct," I said. "McNally and Son. I'm the son."

His smile was cool. "I've heard excellent things about your outfit. As a matter of fact, I may need some legal advice shortly, and McNally and Son heads a short list of possibles I have drawn up."

"Glad to hear it," I said. "We have a number of specialized divisions, and I'm sure we can provide the services you require."

"I'm sure you can. Your visit here today-it concerns some legal business of your firm?"

"Oh no," I said hastily, "nothing like that. It's a personal thing, and I'm afraid you'll find it rather silly."

"Try me," he said.

"A close friend has lost his cat," I said earnestly. "Lost, strayed, or stolen. He really loves the animal and has been worried sick since it's been gone. He's advertised but with no results. It occurred to me

that Mrs. Gloriana might possibly be able to give me some hints or suggestions as to where his pet can be found."

"It's possible," he said immediately. "Hertha has had remarkable success in visualizing where missing objects or people might be located. I don't believe she's ever worked on an animal before, but I see no reason why she couldn't. She once enabled a builder in Atlanta find his missing bulldozer."

"Wonderful," I said. "Where was it?"

"In his foreman's garage," Gloriana said with a slightly sardonic smile. "Listen, why don't you make yourself comfortable out here, and I'll go in and see how much longer Hertha will be. Perhaps she'll have time to fit you in before her next appointment."

"I'd appreciate that," I said.

He departed through an inner door, closing it carefully behind him. I flopped into a mauve-and-aqua armchair alongside a glass cocktail table. It held a selection of thin books and magazines, most of them dealing with astrology, channeling, crystals, mysticism, and occult philosophies of the Far East.

There was also a stack of fliers, advertising circulars that looked as if they had been designed for mailing. A small sign read take one-so I did. It stated that Mrs. Hertha Gloriana, a licensed and bonded adviser, would prepare a "psychic profile" for anyone providing her with the exact time, date, and place of birth, names of parents and grandparents, and a snapshot or personal possession of the sender.

The cost of the psychic profile was a hundred dollars in U.S. funds, payable in advance.

I was stuffing a copy of this intriguing offer into my jacket pocket when Frank Gloriana returned. He saw at once what I was doing.

"Our new project," he said. "What do you think?"

"It makes no promises," I observed.

"Oh no," he said quickly, "no promises. The profile merely analyzes and suggests directions the subject might wish to take that could possibly enrich their lives. It is a serious attempt to provide psychic counseling. I assure you it is not a bunko scheme."

"I never thought for a moment it was."

"We've just started," he said, "but the response to newspaper and magazine ads has encouraged me to plan a direct-mail campaign. I think it could turn out to be a very successful enterprise, and that's the reason I may need legal advice on setting up a separate business venture." He paused and laughed: a thin, toneless ha-ha. "But you didn't come to listen to my business problems. Hertha is available now. Follow me, please."

He led the way through that inner portal, down a short hallway to an interior room. The door stood open, and I could see the chamber was furnished more as a residential sitting room than a commercial office. A young woman-younger than Frank Gloriana by at least five years, I guessed-rose from a high-backed mauve-and-aqua wing chair as we entered.

"Dear," he said, "this gentleman is Archibald McNally. Mr. McNally, my wife, Hertha. I'll leave you two alone."

And he left us, closing the hall door softly behind him.

She floated to me and offered a hand so soft and tender I feared I might crush it in my sinewy paw.

"Mrs. Gloriana," I said, "this is a pleasure."

I had always imagined a medium as an older

woman, heavy through the bosom and hips, with dyed and frizzled hair, caked makeup, a frowsy appearance, and perhaps the overwhelming scent of patchouli. In this case, all wrong. Hertha Gloriana was, if you will pardon the wordplay, a very rare medium indeed.

She was definitely a Pre-Raphaelite type, with a nimbus of chestnut hair, skin as white and smooth as wax, and features so classic they might have graced a coin. There was something ethereal in her beauty, I thought, and something delicate and unworldly in her manner. She moved slowly with a languid ease, and if she had suddenly levitated to the ceiling, I wouldn't have been a bit surprised. She was so insubstantial, you see.

"Mr. McNally," she murmured, voice low and breathy, "Frank has told me why you are here. Perhaps I can help. Perhaps. But I cannot promise. You do understand that, don't you?"

"Of course," I said, trying to determine the exact shade of her eyes. Periwinkle blue, I finally decided. "I would appreciate your trying."

"What is the cat's name?"

"Peaches."

"Female?"

"Yes."

"What breed?"

"Persian, I believe."

"Describe her, please."

"Plump. Silver-gray with tabby markings."

"How old?"

"I don't really know," I confessed. "Perhaps five years."

"Affectionate?"

"Not really. Not with strangers."

She nodded. "Please leave your address and phone number with my husband. If I'm able to do anything, he will contact you."

Apparently our consultation was at an end, but she continued to stare at me. Our eyes were locked, and her gaze was so intent and unblinking that I wanted to look away but could not.

She came close. She was wearing a light floral scent. She put a hand gently on my arm. "You are troubled," she said.

"About the cat? Well, yes. This close friend of mine is very-"

"No," she interrupted, "not the cat. You, personally, are troubled."

"Not really," I said, my short laugh sounding nervous to me. "Nothing I can't handle."

She continued to stare. "Two women, two loves," she said. "That is troubling you."

I wasn't impressed; it smacked too much of a fortune teller on a carnival midway. Many men-at least many I know-are frequently involved with more than one woman. It's hardly a unique situation, is it? Mrs. Gloriana was not demonstrating any special clairvoyant talent.

She stepped back and smiled: a tremulous smile, very vulnerable. "Do not worry," she told me. "The problem will eventually be solved."

"Glad to hear it," I said.

"But not by you," she added. "It was nice meeting you, Mr. McNally. I'll do my best to get a message about Peaches."

"Thank you," I said and turned away. I was at the door when I looked back. I hadn't heard her move but she was seated again in the high-backed wing chair, regarding me gravely. I made up my mind.

"Mrs. Gloriana," I said, "Lydia Gillsworth has told me of the meetings she attends during which you are sometimes able to contact those who are- who are-"

"Dead," she said.

"Yes," I said. "I was wondering if I might possibly sit in at one of your gatherings. I find the whole concept fascinating."

Her stare never wavered. "Very well," she said softly. "Ask Lydia to bring you to our next session. She knows the time and place."

"Thank you," I said again and left her sitting there, distant and complete.

There was a middle-aged couple in the waiting room, holding hands. And Frank Gloriana was seated behind the desk, impassive and doing nothing.

"Your wife said she'd let me know if she is able to help," I told him and handed over my card.

He glanced at it. "You wish to be billed at your office, Mr. McNally?"

All business, this lad.

"Please," I said. "Thank you for your assistance."

I went out into the corridor. I had a lot of impressions I needed to sort out, but there was something I wanted to do first.

When I had entered the office, Frank Gloriana had stalled me by saying the medium was busy with a client. Then, after a period of time, he reported she was now available. But I had seen no client leave the office.

That was understandable if there was another exit from the Gloriana suite. Psychiatrists frequently have such an arrangement to protect the privacy of their analysands. I mean, it would be a bit off-putting, would it not, to enter a shrink's office and bump into your spouse, lover, or boss coming out.

So, before I pushed the elevator button, I roamed the fourth-floor corridor looking for another doorway to the Gloriana offices. There was none. Which probably meant that Hertha had not been busy with another client when I arrived.

There were several innocent explanations. Frank Gloriana's prevarication might mean nothing.

Or it might mean something.