“THE KING IS DEAD.” The rambling of an old lady, or the solution to this case? Which was the answer? More to the point, what was the question? Was I looking for the true identity of the man calling himself Lance Talbot, or for the secret that got Jeff Rodgers killed? It didn’t take an Einstein to conclude that the two might very well be opposite sides of the same coin.
Denny believed that Jeff knew who sired Lance and the absentee daddy preferred to remain anonymous. Denny wanted to believe this because it would make the most sensational story, especially if Lance’s dad was a household name who was as pure as a babe in arms. The purer the better, because such falls from grace are the meat and potatoes of the tabloid press.
Denny’s zeal for a kinky headline had clouded his otherwise clear vision. If Jeff knew who the man was, and if the man did not want the fact known, Jeff would have blackmailed the father, not the son. And Jeff would have done it years ago, not now, as if Lance’s return spurred his memory. But suppose the man’s position made him incommunicado to lesser mortals, making it necessary for Jeff to bargain via Lance?
Then again, could Lance’s father have also recently returned to Palm Beach? Or would, shortly? Lance wouldn’t pay to protect a father who had abandoned him. Did Jessica Talbot go to Switzerland, taking her son, because her lover was there? The Baron? Why would the doctor wish to remain anonymous, and where did that leave poor Holga?
Sorry, Denny, all of the above are possible, but surely not plausible. However, I’m sure that if Denny knew about the grandmother’s doubts as to her heir’s identity, he would give up the search for Lance’s father and pick up, with me, the search for Lance himself.
The two people who knew Lance Talbot for the first ten years of his life were both dead. One by natural causes, after she may have expressed doubts as to his legitimacy. The other murdered, after he had allegedly leaned on Talbot for hush money. With Mrs. Talbot gone, Jeff was the only other person who could spot Lance Talbot for a phony—if that were the case.
Some secret shared by the two boys the returning Lance failed to remember? A word, or phrase, tossed at him by Jeff that required a response Lance had not tossed back? Ten toes, when there should be only nine? It could be any or all of those things. Or, if one believed Lance, none of them.
I had just come from hearing Lance’s side of the story and could find no concrete reason why I should not believe him, while believing what Jeff had told Denny. Todd had labeled Jeff a wiseguy and a malcontent. Certainly not the kind of recommendation that inspired confidence in the boy’s integrity. Was Jeff getting a generous handout from Lance while using the celebrated Talbot name to lure Dennis Darling to Palm Beach with the hope of selling a story to Denny that was either trumped-up or fatuous?
After our chat in the Leopard Lounge only one thing was now certain. Lance Talbot had something to hide and he was afraid Dennis Darling knew that, or might even know the secret itself. My money was on old Mrs. Talbot. “The king”—meaning her grandson—“is dead.” So who had stood me two bourbons at the Leopard Lounge this evening, and who wanted me to find Jeff Rodgers’s murderer? The killer himself? But Lance had close to a hundred reliable witnesses, including Denny and Archy, to swear he was nowhere near the scene of the crime. I have looked upon many a well-turned ankle in my time but I never thought I would live to see the day I lusted after the sight of a guy’s foot.
Thus was my mind occupied as I drove to the Pelican. I took the Royal Palm Way Bridge on this balmy winter night with the temperature in the seventies and a breeze off the Atlantic making a cashmere wrap appropriate for the ladies and jackets more serviceable than show for Madame’s escort. The lit windows of the new steel and glass office buildings in West Palm reflected playfully on the dark waters of Lake Worth, and I imagined I could hear music coming from the Governor’s Club in the penthouse suite atop the opulent tower it called home.
My red Miata raced through an animated picture, postcard of Palm Beach in season, in all its flamboyant splendor—and how I loved it. Also, I was very hungry.
Georgy girl was seated at the Pelican bar. So too were Binky Watrous and Isadora Duhane. They were chatting like old friends and drinking what I thought to be champagne cocktails. The dining room was hopping and I spotted Todd working the floor along with our Priscilla.
Georgy looked gorgeous in one of those sack dresses she favored. This one in white, with a silk paisley scarf cinching her waist. White flats adorned a pair of gams that did not need the classic high heel to show off their allure. Her emerald eyes lit up at my approach and my silent admiration was rewarded with a kiss.
“You’re not late,” Georgy said, “I was early and Binky and Isadora were good enough to keep me company before going off to dinner.” Turning to Isadora, she went on, “This is the famous Archy McNally. Archy, this is Binky’s friend, Isadora Duhane.”
“Our paths have crossed three times today, Mr. McNally. It was inevitable that we finally meet,” Isadora said, eyeing my safari jacket as if memorizing the tiniest detail for reproduction in prose.
Unlike Georgy, Isadora was not the girl next door most likely to be voted Homecoming Queen or the sweetheart of Sigma Chi. Far from it. I would classify Isadora Duhane as striking. Good skin, not yet tinted by our tropical sun. The dark hair I had seen under the babushka was cut as short as a man’s and fringed with bangs. The eyes behind the no-nonsense specs were as dark as the frames. In the makeup department, Ms. Duhane believed that less was better. Lipstick and perhaps a dusting of face powder proved her right.
Her figure, sans the shapeless raincoat, was impressive, if a bit on the lean side for my taste. Tonight she wore a straight gray skirt in Ultrasuede with a black jersey mock turtleneck. Her only jewelry appeared to be a single strand of pearls that looked ultrareal and probably were.
“Do you usually go to morning services at St. Edward’s, Ms. Duhane?”
“You may call me Izzy,” she said, as if I should be grateful for the honor.
“And you may call me anything but Skip McGuire,” I retaliated.
“Oh.” She smiled. “Binky told you about our little project?”
Glaring at my friend, I told her he had. “And I’m not thrilled at the prospect of being parodied in a murder mystery.”
“Lighten up, Archy,” Georgy said. “They told me about it and it sounds like fun.”
“You wouldn’t think so if you were in it,” I answered.
“But she is,” Izzy cried. “We’re calling her Sam. Short for Samantha. Get it?”
I got it all right. Was there no end to Izzy’s cleverness? And what did she see in Binky? I mean, he’s okay, if you like your men average height, blond and bland. Poor Binky just didn’t have the wherewithal to please the opposite sex—if you get my drift. Looking at him now, as he tried to avoid my irate gaze, I hardly recognized my old friend. Besides the manicured hair, he was decked out in a double-breasted Armani suit and a white-on-white shirt with French cuffs and pearl links. Who did he think he was, me? And were the links from a matching set to the strand hanging from Izzy’s neck? What next? A diamond-studded yoke?
I must remember to tell our mail person that he who marries for money, earns it.
Mr. Pettibone was now before us, asking, “Will you have the same, Archy?”
“Who’s paying?” I wanted to know.
“Archy!” Georgy chided me, and Izzy laughed.
“My treat,” said Diamond Jim Watrous. “Champagne cocktails all around, Mr. Pettibone.”
“What are we celebrating?” I asked.
“The opening lines of The Adventures of Skip McGuire,” Izzy announced in triumph.
“In that case, I’ll abstain,” I told Mr. Pettibone.
“Don’t be a spoilsport,” Georgy nagged. “It’s really very good.”
Shocked, I asked, “You’ve read it?”
“Just the very beginning,” Georgy said. “Binky read it aloud.”
“You know, Ms. Duhane...” I began.
“Izzy, please,” she broke in.
“Okay, Izzy,” I began again. “It may interest you to know my father was called upon to defend your mentor, Minerva Barnes, in a libel suit brought on by a person she had maligned in her last romantic extravaganza.”
“Sabine maiden,” Binky murmured with reverence as he watched Mr. Pettibone pop the cork on a bottle of pricey Brut. I didn’t know if he was referring to the title of Minerva’s book, ancient Rome or his rich squeeze.
“Him!” Izzy said, naming a film star of note. “He was my second cousin’s first husband, and everything Minerva wrote about him was true. When I decided to try my hand at fiction I came here just so I could join Minerva’s workshop. She’s a real pro.”
“Then why don’t you emulate your teacher and stick to romance?”
“Romance is not my strong suit,” Izzy pleaded, and I wondered if Binky had heard the comment.
“But when Binky told me about your adventures as a discreet inquirer, I knew I had found my forte,” Izzy rhapsodized.
It seems romance is not the tie that binds this literary couple, but Binky’s spilling the beans on his pal Archy. Or should that be former pal? Like the Arabian princess, Binky had to keep talking to keep his love alive, and I shuddered to think what poetic license he would take with my life. He continued to avoid my gaze as Mr. Pettibone poured our cocktails. I have always thought a champagne cocktail was a waste of good wine, but when you’re out with amateurs you take what’s being offered.
Should I expose Binky here and now? Tell Izzy the man she bought the Armani suit for was our mail person, and send him back to his paper dolls, where he belonged? Seeing him all gussied up and afraid to look at me, I just didn’t have the heart. You’re a sentimental sap, Archy McNally
Then Georgy got on my case. “Don’t rush to judgment, Archy. Keep an open. mind. I wonder who will play me in the movie,” she chatted like a magpie.
“Augusta Apple,” I told her.
“Augusta Apple is dead,” she protested.
“And so will you be if you persist in endorsing this inane idea,” I threatened. My gentle nature was being provoked by these women and the friend who refused to look me in the eye. “My livelihood depends on discretion. I like to keep a low profile, thank you.”
“So why did you give Michael Price the interview?” Georgy countered.
“So I could confuse you with my pet canine, that’s why.”
Izzy chuckled. “I like that. Binky, make a note and put it under gross mishaps, like the time his lady friend emptied a dish of eggs Benedict down the inside of his trousers, and the night he went skinny-dipping and a crab bit his...”
“Enough!” I cried. “Binky, you are history.”
Georgy picked up her stem glass. “Cool it, Archy, and drink up. Here’s to a best-seller.”
They picked up their glasses as I folded my arms across my chest. Needless to say I was dying of thirst. “I’ll sue,” was my toast to the best-seller.
“Binky, read Archy our opening,” Izzy requested. “You’ll love this, Archy.”
“Don’t you dare,” I cautioned the traitor.
Defiant, he pulled a page of notepaper from his jacket pocket and emoted.
As she walked into my office I caught the odor of expensive perfume and trouble. Outside my window the first two letters of the Essex Hotel’s blinking neon sign had blown a fuse, as if heralding her arrival. She saw it and smiled. “Are you for hire?” she asked in a voice that was as smooth as velvet and as tough as nails.
“Depends on the job, Miss...”
“Mrs. Rich. Ivy Rich.”
She opened her fur coat and sank into my visitor’s chair, crossing her legs so that the hem of her black silk dress slithered above her knee. “I want my husband followed.”
“Why?”
“Because I think he’s cheating on me.”
“If he is, he must be nuts.”
“My, aren’t you nice, Mr. McGuire.”
“My friends call me Skip.”
I clicked on the intercom and spoke to my secretary. “Milly? I’ll be working late, honey, and I won’t be needing you. Nighty-night.”
Binky turned to his audience as if expecting a standing ovation. What he got from me was a Bronx cheer.
“James Cain is turning over in his grave,” I moaned. “It’s dreadful.”
“Really?” Georgy said. “We think it’s great.” She tried to look like she meant it but when Izzy and Binky burst into laughter, Georgy joined in.
Even Mr. Pettibone was smiling as he dropped a cherry in an old-fashioned. “Did you read it to him?” he asked.
“Don’t you see, Archy? We composed it while waiting for you to arrive,” Georgy said between bursts of laughter.
“Blame me,” Izzy confessed. “When Binky told me you weren’t happy with our proposed book, I thought it would be fun to give you the worst possible preview of what we were up to.”
“And you succeeded,” I told my antagonists. “I can take a joke and I congratulate the authors.” I wasn’t exactly thrilled at being the target of a charade, but when you’re out with amateurs, etc., etc., etc. It did, however, give me an excuse to finally raise my glass and one should always be thankful for small favors. “I rather liked the Sex Hotel. Does Skip live there?”
“No,” Georgy answered, “he lives at home with Mumsy and Dada.”
I could have brained her but the others laughed and I went along for the ride. I was painfully aware that I was a decade older than each of them and any show of sour grapes would be attributed to my antiquity. I drank more of my champagne cocktail.
“I’ll strike a bargain with you, Mr. McNally Izzy offered.
“Please, call me Skip.”
That got a laugh, as intended, further abating the charged atmosphere that had encompassed our party before Binky’s performance. Even Izzy appeared to be more regular and I now saw that her earlier, rather haughty manner was part of the show. This pleased me. If Binky married money I wanted to be comfortable with the lady of the mansion, as I would like to visit my old friend often.
However, I ruminated, eyeing Izzy, I have taken women away from Binky before and why not again? What a cad to have such a thought with the lovely Georgy girl at my side. But, alas, I had such a thought.
“Binky and I will continue to work on our book and when it’s done we will turn it over to you for comment. I promise not to publish without your consent.”
“I say no and you trash it?”
“You have our word,” Binky pledged.
Knowing what Binky’s word was worth, I eyed him with a scowl, but he didn’t cower. Remarkable what an Armani suit and a rich lady friend could do for a guy. Sensing my doubt, Izzy also gave me her word.
“Now tell me, what you were doing at Jeff Rodgers’s funeral services this morning?”
“I’ve been reading about the murder,” Izzy replied, “and I wanted to get a look at the cast of characters. Binky and I have been discussing it and we have some ideas. I know Binky is undercover at the moment, so he couldn’t accompany me.”
Even Georgy girl winced at that one.
“I think you had better stick to your fiction,” I advised Izzy with yet another menacing look at Binky. This time he cringed, making me feel better. “Meddling with murder can be dangerous.”
“Are you on the case?” Izzy asked with obvious envy.
“Let’s say Skip is on top of things,” I teased, giving Izzy my thousand-watt smile.
Georgy’s glare had me cancelling my plans to marry for money. Lieutenant O’Hara, let’s not forget, carries heat and qualifies at the firing range monthly. Connie, my former flame, often threatened me with a carving knife. Did I have to be in harm’s way to fall in love? With Izzy’s loot, she probably owned an arsenal of assault weapons.
“How thrilling,” Izzy said. “I’ll try to keep out of your way. Now Binky and I must fly. Mother keeps an apartment at The Breakers and most of my wardrobe is still there. I have to pick up a few things and I thought we would have dinner at Flagler’s Steakhouse. Binky adores dining at The Breakers.”
The blushing undercover agent signed the bar tab and fled with his Mata Hari. “See you, Archy,” were his parting words.
“I can’t wait, Binky—I can’t wait,” I called after him.