JEFF RODGERS’S MURDER CONTAINED all the ingredients of a pulp fiction novella, which made his funeral a media event. The mourners included a mix of Palm Beach society, an incorrigible tennis pro hunk, and a gaggle of winsome boys and girls.
The link between the newly departed and the newly arrived was still the best-kept secret of the drama, but with the number of people hot on Talbot’s trail (or should that be Talbot’s toe?), it was only a matter of time before he would have to make a public statement regarding his connection to the victim. When I entered St. Edward’s church I had no idea the time was at hand.
Many of the young folks who filled the church to say good-bye to their friend and colleague wore the uniform of their trade and, whether because they were on their way to a job or as a tribute to Jeff, the gesture made a poignant statement Well, if the uniformed services buried their own in full dress, why not these gallant boys and girls?
The others, accustomed to running about in shorts, T-shirts and sneakers, looked a tad uncomfortable in their trousers or skirts with a proper shirt or blouse covering their tanned torsos. The sneakers, I noted, made it to church but the surfboards did not. I saw Todd and Monica in the crowd. Todd’s seat in the first row with three other young men, all wearing dark suits and ties, told me Todd was a designated pallbearer. The older man in that pew was no doubt Jeff’s father.
Poor Jeff. If he were looking down on this gathering in search of his former classmates from the Day School I fear he would find that he had been snubbed in death as he had been in life. Seeing those who did come to bid him farewell, I would say Jeff Rodgers traded up when he left the Day School for a seat next to Edward (Todd) Brandt. Poor Jeff just didn’t get it, and the oversight may have cost him his life.
This is not to say the gathering wasn’t impressive. The press, from Miami to Jacksonville and points west, was in attendance, their accompanying photographers having the good sense to limit their photo ops to outside the church.
Representing Bare Facts magazine was Dennis Darling, seated next to Lolly Spindrift. Lolly possesses all the sincerity of a mole working both sides of the street. After warning us to steer clear of the man from Bare Facts, Lol accepts his invitation to dine, no doubt exchanging titillating gossip over the beef Wellington, and now sits before those he cautioned, and before God I might add, pointing and whispering the names of PB notables into Darling’s ear. For a guy like Denny, extracting the bare facts out of Lolly was like getting a has-been ham to list his credits.
Jackson Barnett, looking like a blond Adonis and dressed like a funeral director, was with a man who exhibited all the signs of a flack. Custom-made suit, black silk tie and nervous tic. I imagine the people in New York, anxious that Jackie’s involvement in Jeff’s death might cost him his lucrative endorsements and their ten percent, sent down this troubleshooter to keep Barnett from doing anything foolish, like skipping the funeral in favor of sleeping late.
Phil Meecham was nowhere to be seen, which was just as well as his presence in a house of worship might well precipitate the onset of Armageddon. The MacNiffs were there, she in a deep purple frock and smart black hat. I also noticed many of the Tennis Everyone! participants, including Joe Gallo and Vivian Emerson. He sported flannels and blazer, she a navy Chanel suit. Now aware of Joe’s former involvement with Georgy girl, I scrutinized him as best I could from where I sat, seeking imperfections and finding none. This was depressing, but apropos to the occasion. The Emerson woman, as I recalled from the MacNiff gala, was a stunner.
Al Rogoff and his chief, both in civilian dress, were stationed on opposite sides of the congregation where they could not be mistaken for anything but flatfoots on the prowl.
All were present and accounted for with one glaring exception. This was a rather strange young lady seated in the pew directly across the aisle from me in the rear of the church. A few strands of dark hair fell over her forehead from beneath a kerchief that engulfed much of her face. Dark, horn-rimmed glasses and a shapeless raincoat completed the picture of a member of the royal family shopping incognito along the King’s Road.
Her features, what you could see of them, were attractive, and I imagined so too was the figure the raincoat concealed. In a town where the fair sex strives to enhance their assets, she labored to be the exception to the rule—with a vengeance. Why would an attractive lass come to a funeral disguised as a frump?
Further speculation was nipped in the bud when, just at the start of the service, a young man entered the church and chose to settle into my pew. I moved to make room for Lance Talbot, who nodded politely as he slipped in beside me.
The service was lovely, if somber, and although we were reminded that Jeff Rodgers had left this vale of tears for a more affable location, I doubt if any present were eager to follow him there in the immediate future. Thankfully, no mention was made of the mode of Jeff’s departure.
The four young pallbearers, Todd included, flanked the draped coffin as it was wheeled up the aisle, followed by Mr. Rodgers and, behind him, the mourners filed out of their pews to form a cortege. As the coffin rolled past us, Lance Talbot bowed his head and when he raised it he found himself literally face-to-face with Jeff’s father. Mr. Rodgers paused, rudely staring at the younger man as if wondering if he should greet him. Talbot smiled, nodded and said, “Yes, Rollo, it’s me.”
“Mr. Lance?” Rodgers said. “Thank you for coming. He would have liked that.” Then he continued to follow his son out of the church and to his final resting place.
Being in the last row we should have joined the rear of the procession to make our exit but this was not to be. Talbot sat, unmoving, hemming me in until we were alone in the church. Turning, he focused his blue eyes on me and said, “I’m keeping you prisoner.”
His English was perfect but not without the trace of an accent. German, I think. Understandable considering the years he spent in Switzerland, where his first language could have been German, French or Italian. Behind us someone was closing the church doors, muting the sounds of the departing mourners.
“I’ve been detained in less congenial places,” I assured him.
“Not jail. I hope.”
“I refuse to answer on the grounds that it may incriminate me.”
Talbot laughed. “I was told you had a keen sense of humor.”
“To a point, Mr. Talbot, but don’t press your luck. May I ask why you’re detaining me?”
“I have a confession to make,” he said.
“You’ve certainly come to the right place.”
He smiled to display a set of pearly whites, then turned serious. “Jeff Rodgers and I grew up together. We were the best of friends before I went to Switzerland with Mother, who died there in a skiing accident.”
I offered my sympathies for his loss but made no comment on his connection with Jeff Rodgers.
“Thank you,” he said before going on. “I’m sure you noticed that Mr. Rodgers recognized me.”
You told him who you were, I wanted to counter, but kept my mouth shut. If he was in a confessing mood I didn’t want to rattle the beads, and if his revelation was intended to take me by surprise, I thought it only fair to respond in kind. Shifting gears, I said, “I know all about you and Jeff and your days together at the Day School.”
He kept his cool, but I think I got him where he lived. “Really? From who?”
“A friend of Jeff’s. One of the pallbearers, in fact.”
“What did he say about me?”
“That would be telling, Mr. Talbot.”
“Please, call me Lance.”
“That would be telling, Lance.”
“Can’t we be friends, Mr. McNally?”
The guy was either painfully ingenuous or too cagey by half. This show of camaraderie was so unexpected, I wasn’t sure how to handle it. Talbot was handing me, on a platter, what I had planned to force him to own up to, thereby putting me on the defensive. I recalled him saying at our initial meeting, “I’m not as clever as you, Mr. McNally.” Wanna bet?
“I see no reason why we can’t be friends,” I said.
“Good, because I want to retain you to find Jeff’s killer.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“It’s what you do, isn’t it?” Then he rattled on, “Jeff was a dear friend. His father, Ronald, was our chauffeur. I called him Rollo.” With a show of impatience, he dismissed these details as irrelevant with a wave of his hand. “It’s a long story, Mr. McNally, which I’ll tell you at a more appropriate time. Let’s just say I owe Jeff this much. Will you do it?”
Why not? I thought. I already had two clients on this case and the old adage has it that there’s never a second without a third. “Have the police questioned you yet?”
“Yes. Holga, too,” he admitted.
“Did you tell them that you and Jeff were boyhood friends?”
A shrug and another irritable wave of his hand. “No. Why should I? That was ten years ago. Will you do it?” he repeated.
I was suddenly catapulted into the enviable position of being able to question my quarry, with his blessing. This, I quickly deduced, was a double-edged sword, as my questions would tell him what I didn’t know and allow him to manipulate the answers to suit his purposes. To date, we had both given a little and both taken a little, so the score was one-up, and I wanted to call time. I justified what I was about to do by remembering it’s not how you play the game, it’s winning that matters. And I called Lolly a mole!
I gave him my standard caution. “Anything you tell me that might aid the police in their investigation of Jeff’s murder, I will be obligated to pass on to them.”
“I understand,” he agreed.
“As you said, Lance, I think we should discuss this at a more appropriate time and on less sanctified turf.” And, I didn’t add, give me time to digest this newformed alliance.
“The Leopard Lounge at the Chesterfield?” he suggested.
“I can’t think of any place less sanctified.”
I found a note on the dashboard of my Miata. “What were you two doing in there—exchanging vows? Can’t wait to hear all about it. You can buy me lunch at your Pelican Club. D.D.”
Lolly. Who else? I could hear him cluing Denny. “The little fire engine belongs to Archy McNally, our resident PI, but you didn’t hear that from me. His club is the Pelican, out near the airport. The food is passable, the members aren’t.”
I found Denny at the bar, nursing a pilsner glass of dark beer. “I told Mr. Pettibone you had invited me and he insisted I partake of your hospitality while waiting.” Denny ran a finger under the collar of his dress shirt. “It was cooler in church than it is in here.”
“God looks after his own,” I told him, signaling to Mr. Pettibone, who was organizing his garnish set-ups before the onset of the noon rush. “Can you pull me a stout, Mr. Pettibone?”
The Pelican is located in a clapboard house converted to the needs of a social club. The L-shaped first floor is our dining room with additional tables in the ell that is now the bar area. The kitchen, greatly improved and enlarged, is in its original location, and a room that may have served as a den is now used for private parties and meetings. The Pettibone family occupies the second floor.
Priscilla, looking ravishing in skintight white jeans and T-shirt emblazoned with the club’s emblem, a pelican lording over a sea of dead mullets, was placing menus on the tables and fussing over the silverware.
People were beginning to drift in and a few tables were already occupied.
“A sad business” Mr. Pettibone said, serving my stout. “Were you able to contact Todd, Archy?”
“I was, Mr. Pettibone, and he was most helpful.”
“The police don’t seem to have any leads, if we can believe today’s newspapers.”
“You can believe them,” I told him as he went off to greet a newcomer.
“Nice,” Denny said, indicating the room in general and Priscilla in particular.
“I’m sure Lolly trashed it,” I said. “You mustn’t believe everything he told you.”
“Archy,” Denny moaned, “I couldn’t remember half of what Lolly told me. He tattled on everyone and everything from the upper crust to the low-life watering holes where, according to Lolly, the twain meet. The only thing he does more than talk is eat. You owe me big, Archy.”
“I did you a favor. He now thinks you’re here to write your exposé and will keep out of our way. If he even thought you were after a story on Lance Talbot he would tell Lance in hopes of getting in his good graces. Lolly, as I’m sure you now know, can’t keep a secret or resist pandering to the local gentry.”
Denny took the last swig of his beer and motioned to Mr. Pettibone for another. “Lolly is more interested in Talbot’s lady friend than in Talbot himself. Some titled lady offered Lolly a generous tip if he can discover the location of Holga von Brecht’s fountain of youth.”
“Lady Cynthia Horowitz,” I said. “She and Lolly are archenemies who can’t keep out of each other’s faces. They share an interest in athletic young men. Lady C is also offering a premium to Lolly if he can get Jackson Barnett off Meecham’s yacht and into her bedroom, but he won’t do it because Meecham shares the wealth and Lady C does not. Get it?”
“My, my, you are an earthy little community,” Denny laughed.
“We like to keep up,” I boasted. “Do you want to see a menu?”
Mr. Pettibone brought Denny’s beer just as I was ready for seconds. Nothing like a funeral to work up a thirst.
“First, I want to know what you and Talbot were doing in the church for at least ten minutes after the service.”
“He was confessing,” I stated.
“To the murder?” Denny exclaimed, a tad too loud. Mr. Pettibone paused in his labors to stare, as did a couple of men at the bar. Priscilla, on her way to the kitchen, also stopped in her tracks to give us the fisheye.
“Curb your enthusiasm, Denny. We’ve already agreed that Lance Talbot could not have done it. Remember? He confessed to being an old acquaintance of Jeff’s and hired me to investigate the murder.”
Denny pursed his lips and exhaled a muted whistle. “Did you accept?”
“With alacrity, old boy.”
Seeing the irony as well as the possibilities of the situation, Denny gave me a broad grin before raising his glass in an unspoken salute. “So they were buddies,” he mused, as if this finally explained how Jeff Rodgers could know something about Talbot that might embarrass him.
“It was a while back,” I said, holding up my hand to keep Denny from interrupting. “Let me explain. You just heard Mr. Pettibone ask if I had contacted Todd Brandt. He was a friend of Jeff’s. In fact, he was one of the pallbearers at the funeral.”
Here I gave Denny a full report on my meeting with Todd. I had already passed on this information to Nifty and I would have to repeat it for Lance this evening at the Chesterfield. When dealing with multiple clients it would help to write up reports and photocopy them for distribution.
“I was right,” Denny said, visibly excited by my tale. “If they were tight when they were boys there is every reason to suspect that Jeff knew who fathered Lance. Boys talk, you know. They share secrets.” Then he grabbed my arm and gushed, “Good Lord, Archy, maybe the chauffeur is the father. Jeff and Lance were brothers. The prince and the pauper.”
“Blessed mother of Samuel Clemens, will you calm down, Denny. You’re beginning to believe your own copy”
“Am I?” he questioned. “Remember the New York deb—what was her name?—Gamble, Gamble Benedict, that’s it. She ran off with the family chauffeur. It was in all the papers.”
“Jessica Talbot didn’t run off with anyone, nor would she retain her son’s father as her driver. Jeff Rodgers was a frustrated playboy. If he had any proof that he was Lance’s brother he might try to sue for his share of the estate and his rightful place in society, not pussyfoot around with some inane blackmail scam to raise a few bucks. Ditto, Mr. Rodgers, the elder.”
Denny looked disappointed, but contrite. “You must admit it would have made a smashing story. Maybe even a film or a TV series.” However, he continued to pursue the father angle with, “But I still think Jeff knew the identity of Lance’s father and it’s either a married Palm Beach big shot or a politico. It has to be someone who would be embarrassed by the disclosure.” Denny, I believe, was hoping for a politician, preferably one who touted the virtues of family values.
I felt a twinge of guilt at not being able to tell him what Nifty and I suspected—that Talbot was an imposter. But that would be premature and guilt is a destructive emotion, so I turned to more pressing matters for solace. “Should I get a table or do you want to eat at the bar?”
“Here is fine,” he said. “A burger or sandwich will do for me.”
“Leroy makes the best burgers in Florida, if not the world. Fries?”
“Can we share? I’ve got to watch the calories and the cholesterol. My doctor gave me six months to live.”
“Really? When was that?”
“Six months ago.” Denny sighed.
“We’ve never had anyone expire at the Pelican, but we do have a contingency fund to cover those who pass out at the bar. You might be covered.”
“Thanks, Archy.” Seeing Priscilla approaching he said loud enough for her to hear, “Will this lovely lady take our order?”
“I would be happy to oblige, Mr. Darling,” Priscilla cooed.
Denny must have introduced himself to Mr. Pettibone, and Priscilla had gone running to her father the first chance she got to learn the name of the handsome guy waiting for Archy McNally. Need I add she knew who Dennis Darling was?
“I subscribe to your magazine, Mr. Darling, and read every word,” she flattered. “Your stories, especially”
“Aren’t you nice,” he said.
“This is Priscilla Pettibone,” I introduced the two, “who is here to take our lunch order and not to hit on guests.”
Priscilla stared hard, blinked, then exclaimed, “Why it’s Archy McNally. I didn’t recognize you without your Lilly Pulitzer trappings.”
“What did you think of the interview?”
“Like they say, fools’ names and fools’ faces often...”
“That’s enough, young lady,” I said, cutting her off and sparing us the obvious. “It’s not original. Mr. Darling and I would like the hamburger, medium rare, with sliced onion and kosher dills on the side. We’ll share Leroy’s fries.”
She winked at Denny before sashaying off to the kitchen.
“She’s adorable,” Denny commented, watching Priscilla’s retreating derriere.
“Don’t encourage her,” I warned him. “She’s a minx and loves the attention. One day we’ll lose her to a traveling talent scout on the lookout for a stand-up comic with the looks and magnetism of Lena Home.”
Mr. Pettibone was setting us up with place mats and cutlery when Denny reflected, “So Talbot confesses that he knew Jeff Rodgers but he seems reluctant to let the police in on it, and Jeff was bragging to his friends about coming into money. Blackmail, Archy, no question about it. I want to know what Jeff had on Lance Talbot and I’m not leaving Palm Beach until I find out.”
“I may have the answer for you first thing in the morning.”
“You mean...”
“I mean I’m meeting with Talbot this evening, and I’m going to tell him everything Todd told me and ask him what he knows about Jeff’s supposed windfall. Talbot is courting me because he knows my father is Malcolm MacNiff’s attorney and, in case you don’t know, MacNiff is the executor of the old lady’s estate. Talbot even called my Father, waving an offer to do business with him. Lance Talbot wants to know what the executor is saying about him to Father and me.” That was as much as I was willing to tell Denny at this point in the investigation.
“Talbot must suspect that MacNiff engaged you to look into Jeff’s murder and he hired you to keep an eye on you,” Denny chuckled. “He’s hiding something, Archy”
“No doubt,” I said. “But you have to admire him, Denny. He’s gutsy.” I was thinking of the way Talbot had handled Mr. Rodgers at the funeral, carefully skirting an awkward moment.
“Whatever you do,” Denny warned, “don’t blow my cover.”
“Not to worry. I won’t lay down all our cards. Not yet, anyway. But I did arrange for you to meet with Lance. You’re going to get a call from Mrs. MacNiff to invite you to a pool party at the scene of the crime.”
“Sounds ghoulish,” Denny said.
“Perhaps, but I arranged it. Lance will be there and I insisted you come, too. If Jeff dropped your name as a threat, I want to see how Lance acts in your presence, I told the MacNiffs you were interested in doing a story on his charity.” Lies fall from my lips like honey sifting through the comb.
“Talbot hardly noticed me at the MacNiffs’ the other afternoon,” Denny recalled. “Do you think his lady friend will be there?”
“Holga? I’m sure she will. What did Lolly have to report on her?”
“She’s a baroness who’s seventy—at least. The Baron is a vampire who’s a thousand—at least. He operates a rejuvenation clinic high in the Alps where he injects his followers with—well, I don’t want to spoil your lunch.”
Unbeknownst to either of us my lunch was already jeopardized when a young lady entered the club and followed Priscilla to a corner table in the bar. It was the strange girl I had seen in church. As soon as she was seated, I beckoned to Priscilla. “Who is that?” I whispered.
“Binky’s fiancé,” Priscilla announced with glee. “She has carte blanche on his account. Don’t you love it?”
Before the shock wore off, Denny turned to look at the subject of our conversation and said, “She was at the funeral. After Lolly showed me your car he spotted her coming out of the church and went rushing off to talk to her.”
Priscilla caught me as I slid off my bar stool.