TENNIS EVERYONE!
It was the height of the season in Palm Beach, where anyone knows a benefit a day keeps ennui away. After the previous night’s encounter with Bunny and Honey and their traveling circus, a bit of good clean fund-raising was just what I needed to restore my faith in humankind.
Malcolm MacNiff’s Tennis Everyone! has long been the town’s premier fund-raiser for those who can afford to fork over five thousand bucks for the privilege of donning their tennis togs (white only on the court, please) to strut their stuff across MacNiff’s courts—one clay, one grass.
Nifty, as he was called at St. Paul’s and still is because boys who prep together stick together, opens his courts once a year for his private scholarship fund benefiting deserving high school graduates who would otherwise never see the inside of a college lecture hall. Nifty’s backyard courts cover five prime acres on the west side of S. Ocean Boulevard.
The downside of being on the west side of the Boulevard is that you have to cross it to get to the beach. The upside is that were you wise as well as rich, you tunneled under the highway, thereby proving the mathematical axiom about a straight line being the shortest distance between two points. The gates to the tunnel were invitingly open on this tropical winter day, but no one seemed eager to leave the party for a stroll on the beach.
Tennis Everyone! redefines “exclusive.” Only one hundred check writers in white can indulge in an afternoon of doubles involving both mixed couples, and ladies only and gentlemen only, all drawn by lots. I would like to report that those chosen to participate in Nifty’s tennis marathon are summoned by a higher power but, alas, this being Palm Beach they are summoned by a coveted invitation from Mr. and Mrs. Malcolm MacNiff.
That’s correct. By invitation. So popular is Nifty’s fund-raiser that only those carefully selected by the MacNiffs can give them five grand for the privilege of whacking the hell out of a Spaulding wrapped in fuzzy wool. The uninvited don’t dare show their faces in town on the day of Nifty’s event. The boutiques on Worth Avenue are empty of shoppers and the ladies who lunch are stricken with the vapors or suddenly remember pressing engagements in Nepal and Zimbabwe.
The event’s main attraction is usually a tennis superstar, and today’s chosen was none other than the enfant terrible of the pro circuit, Jackson (Jackie) Barnett. The six-foot-two blond with the looks of a comic strip hero and the temper of a two-year-old was garnering all the attention of the stargazers this afternoon and basking in the adulation.
At Wimbledon he had been cheered, then chased all over London by a titled lady who did or did not catch him, depending on the tabloid you read. He had been offered a million dollars for a five-minute cameo in the film version of this year’s best-selling novel and, most notably, he was applauded by spectators when he flung to the ground the racket that bore his name when it, not the player, failed to answer an opponent’s volley.
Jackie’s name was tossed into the hopper, just like the common folks, so his partners or opponents were strictly the luck of the draw and, to be sure, it was a great party booster each time Nifty pulled the names out of the hat to arrange the foursomes. Ladies who teamed with Jackie screamed when their names were called; the gentlemen, similarly honored, were obliged to square their shoulders and stiffen their upper lips. Losers could look forward to the next lottery, keeping all in a state of happy expectation.
Me? I’m Archy McNally, the only person here by the grace of a higher power, namely, my father, the CEO of McNally & Son, Attorney-at-Law. As representatives of the MacNiff interests we are always on the invited list. Like most firms doing business in Palm Beach, we are forced to subscribe to several charity events each season, though Tennis Everyone! is one of the few I would be sorry to miss. Although my serve leaves something to be desired and my backhand has been referred to as weak, I have a great pair of legs—and in Palm Beach it’s the visuals that matter.
When not at play, guests are invited to nosh at the enormous catered smorgasbord featuring the alpha and omega of party food: grilled filet mignon, sliced by a master carver before your very eyes; poached salmon; pheasant; fried chicken; foie gras; caviar; deviled eggs; every garnish, dip and crudité known to man, including ketchup and mustard for the burgers and hot dogs. Who said the rich aren’t catholic in their tastes?
There were, of course, several portable bars strategically positioned on the property so that one was never out of sight of a gin and tonic or the young lads and lassies who serve, bus and look so splendid in their black pants, white shirts and black bow ties. Among them I spotted Todd, who waits tables at the Pelican Club on busy Saturday nights. Todd was christened Edward but redubbed himself in anticipation of a career on the silver screen. I don’t think Todd is any improvement over Edward, but it beats Jeb, Rock or Rip. Like many young folks in the surrounding communities, namely Lake Worth and West Palm Beach, Todd survives by toiling for the caterers and restaurants that abound in our upscale resort.
While I hadn’t yet been paired with or against Jackie Barnett, I did get called for the mixed doubles and found myself with a very attractive lady introduced as Holga von Brecht. The von made me wonder if she was a titled lady of German descent, though her accent was strictly New England Yankee. I guessed her age at forty, give or take, but these days she could have been a decade older and either well preserved or well connected to a surgeon with hands of gold.
We were opposite a young man named Joe Gallo and his partner, Vivian Emerson, who was a good deal older than Joe but, like Holga, a looker with a figure to match. Why the name Joe Gallo struck a chord I had no idea and, chosen to serve, didn’t have time to ponder the mystery. We played the allotted three sets and Holga and I took two of them. When we shook hands across the net I believe Vivian shot daggers at Holga. This being Palm Beach I immediately jumped to the conclusion that Joey belonged to Vivian and Holga was trying to make some points that had nothing to do with tennis. Ho-hum and pardon my lack of interest.
Later I drew an all-male foursome and was paired with Lance Talbot, a young man of sudden great wealth, due to his maternal grandmother’s demise. Grandmama was the daughter of a Detroit pioneer who had been on a first-name basis with the Fords, Chryslers, Dodges and Fishers. I recalled that Lance and his grandmother were estranged for years but it seems they kissed and made up just in time to keep Lance a member in good standing of the jet set. Palm Beach is chock-full of such heartwrenching tales.
We were opposite Nifty himself and, if I had heard correctly, a man Nifty introduced as Darling. This I believe was the gentleman’s surname unless, of course, Nifty was taking liberties with the guy, which I doubted. Nifty and Darling took all three sets.
“I liked your interview in ‘Jacket Required,’” Lance complimented me when we parted company.
Dark crew cut, blue eyes and a physique that bespoke a personal trainer, Lance Talbot was the answer to a working maiden’s prayer. I was also amazed that he took notice of the likes of me. “Thanks. I assume you’ll be tapped for the honor in the near future,” I told him.
“I would refuse,” he said. “I’m not as clever as you, Mr. McNally.”
With that he pulled a cell phone out of the pocket of his tennis shorts and proceeded to make a call. Really!
Not sure if I had been praised or panned by young Talbot I beckoned to Todd, who proffered his tray of goodies. “Juice?” he asked.
“No, thanks, I hear it can rust your pipes,” I answered, reaching for a gin and tonic. “How goes it, Todd?”
“Working my tail off, Mr. McNally. Jeff is supposed to be bussing this station with me but he went for a smoke a half hour ago and I haven’t seen him since.”
An ex-smoker myself, I imagined Jeff had most likely escaped via the tunnel and was now on the beach, happily puffing away. “When he gets back, take a break,” I advised the aspiring thespian. “You certainly deserve it.”
I saw a familiar figure at the dessert table and ambled over to Lolly Spindrift to hear all the news that’s not fit to print. Our resident gossip columnist is a small guy with the appetite of a giant. Today Lol was clad in his trademark white suit, hand-painted silk tie and Panama hat, resembling a guy who had just caught the last train out of a banana republic in a state of flux. Lol’s column is titled “Hither and Yon” which the locals call, affectionately I’m sure, “Dither and Yawn.”
“Good afternoon, Lol,” I opened.
Without taking his eyes off the array of sweets he declaimed, with attitude, “Saw your interview.”
My, my. That bit of fluff was certainly proving to be provocative. “What did you think?”
Still paying more attention to the stuffed pastries, chocolate delights and puffed creams than to his visitor, he recited, “Fools’ names, like fools’ faces, often appear in public places.” This told me Lolly had not been asked to don the Lilly Pulitzer blazer and was miffed over the slight.
“I could say the same about most of the people whose names fill your column, Lol.”
He reached for something wrapped in a mocha colored shell and topped with a cherry but withdrew before his hand made contact with the item. “You’ll get no argument from me on that score,” he said, “but at least I provide a service for my foolish readers.”
“Really? Pray tell, Lol.”
“They read me to learn where they were last night and where they might be headed this evening. Without me they wouldn’t know how much fun they were having. You might say I am as indispensable to the community as sun and surf.” Now he went for a strawberry mousse, hesitated, then once again aborted the mission.
“Why are you so cryptic about your job at McNally and Son?” he probed, still dishing my little interview. “Everyone in this town that matters knows you’re a PI despite the fancy Discreet Inquirer label printed on your card.”
“What about the people in this town that don’t matter?” I quickly responded.
“Well,” he laughed, “obviously it doesn’t matter what they think, does it?”
He continued to scrutinize the goodies like a health inspector at a salad bar with a faulty sneeze guard, still unable to make up his mind. Poor Lolly. I was certain he had gone through the other tables with all the restraint of swarming locusts but had thoughtfully left room in his seemingly bottomless pit for just one dolce; hence it had to be the most exquisite of all bon-bons.
Examining the petits fours he rambled on, “I get invited to these benefits so I can tell those who didn’t attend what they missed, thereby raising the attendance and the ante for next year’s clambake.” Again he reached and retreated.
“What do you think of Jackson Barnett?” I teased.
“I hear he swings both ways,” Lolly answered. Knowing Lolly’s propensities I knew he didn’t mean fore- and backhand.
“Wishful thinking, Lolly,” I said. “How is your bartender pal, Ramón?”
“He’s gone to work on Phil Meecham’s yacht.”
“That’s nice. What’s he doing for Meecham?”
Finished counting the petits fours, he sighed, “Trust me, Archy, you don’t want to know.”
Well, Ramón was no longer a mixologist, that’s for sure. Whether he had traded up was questionable.
“I saw you on the court with the latest addition to Palm Beach’s most eligible bachelor list,” Lolly was saying. “Anything to report?”
“You mean the Talbot kid? I think he sassed me.”
“Poor Archy. I’m sure he meant no offense. Do you think he’ll hire you to find his father?”
I shrugged. “I didn’t know he had lost him.”
“Surely you know he bears the same name as his late grandmother, Mrs. Ronald Talbot. His maternal grandmother, that is.”
“You mean...”
Lolly gave up his quest for a sweet and indulged himself in his next favorite pastime—rumormongering. “Twenty years ago, Mrs. Talbot’s daughter, Jessica, had Lance but refused to tell her mama where he came from. The two fought for a decade over the matter until Jessie packed herself and young Lance off to Switzerland and stayed there until poor Jessie was hit by a humongous snowball, leaving Lance an orphan. Grandma, who was on her deathbed, immediately sent for the boy and presto, we have a new rich kid on the block and you get sassed on the tennis court.”
“Do you mean Jessica Talbot was killed in an avalanche?”
“That’s what I said, didn’t I? I believe it was on the slopes at Winterthur.”
Looking across the crowded lawn I could see Lance and Holga in conversation with our tennis pro. “Is he a friend of the von Brecht woman?” I asked Lolly.
“Friend? I wouldn’t hire you to find a starlet in Jolly-wood. Lance and Holga are an item, dear boy”
Amazed, I foolishly blurted, “But she’s old enough to be his mother.”
“She’s even older than that, or so it’s rumored. She followed the boy here from Switzerland, where she was a friend of his mother’s, or so they say, and please don’t ask me who they are. I don’t make up the hearsay, I just repeat it. They also say she’s the finished product of a Swiss doctor who runs an Alpine rejuvenation clinic where he injects his rich patrons with a serum derived from—well, I won’t spoil your appetite.
“Of course, all our lovely Palm Beach ladies, including your pal, Lady Cynthia Horowitz, are dying to know the name of the clinic and who they have to bribe to get in. Holga is the season’s most sought-after enigma.”
Ask Lolly a question and get someone’s biography in return. “I think the boy could do better,” I offered.
“Mine not to reason why,” he said. “Mine but to do and spy. Speaking of which, I see you also met Dennis Darling, the predator in our midst. I hope you kept your mouth shut.”
“I didn’t have a chance to open it. Should I know who he is?”
“My dear boy, what you don’t know could fill volumes. How do you survive a day in this sun-drenched abyss of egocentric consumption? Promise me you’ll never wander out alone at night without Lolly by your side.” He paused, briefly, to breathe. “Dennis Darling is the so-called investigative reporter for Bare Facts magazine and is here researching his next expose which is said to be called ‘The Palm Beach Story.’”
If true, the title wasn’t original. The late, great Preston Sturges wrote and directed The Palm Beach Story, which had Rudy Vallee, of all people, playing a Palm Beach playboy with all the panache of a department store mannequin.
“How did he get invited to Nifty’s?” I wondered aloud.
“No doubt a donation by his employers that Nifty couldn’t refuse in good conscience. Money not only talks, Archy, it shouts, intimidates and coerces, never failing to get its way.” Evoking the royal we, Lolly expounded, “We have decided to give Mr. Darling the PBCS. And remember, you heard it here first.”
For the uninitiated, the PBCS translates to the Palm Beach Cold Shoulder, which is the kiss of death to anyone in this town with social aspirations. “Why such drastic measures, Lol?”
“Remember what Edna Ferber did to Texans? They took her into their confidence and she repaid them with Giant”
Not a bad opus, I thought, and Palm Beach should be so lucky, but I kept it to myself. If I were earmarked for the PBCS, I would be out of business and possibly a home. “Is everyone with a skeleton in their closet fleeing Palm Beach?”
“If so, dear boy, you and I will be the only people left in town, and I’m not so sure about you. Which reminds me, I hear Connie Garcia is practically engaged to that gorgeous Alejandro Gomez y Zapata. I assume you and Connie are history.”
“Assume nothing,” I told him.
“Can I quote you?”
“Be my guest.”
Undaunted, he asked, “Are you still dating the policeman?”
That was too much. “Officer O’Hara is a policewoman. There’s a difference.”
With a sly wink, he posed, “Does Archy protest too much?” Then he swooped down on a seven-layer extravaganza topped with mocha buttercream.
“Why did you pick that?” I wanted to know.
“Mae West,” he said.
“Mae West?”
“That’s right. Mae said, ‘Between two evils I always choose the one I never tried before.’”
Pondering that I left Lolly Spindrift to his just desserts and went forth to mix and mingle. As I returned my empty glass to the bar I ran into Nifty. “Lolly tells me the Darling guy is a mole for Bare Facts magazine. Do you think he’ll tell the world about our tennis match?”
“Only if he caught us cheating,” Nifty surmised. “By the by, Archy, could you spare the time to lunch with me tomorrow?”
As Nifty belongs to the set more in keeping with my parents’ generation than mine, I took it the invitation was more a summons than a social event. “I would be delighted, sir.”
“I’m at Mar-a-Lago these days. Would noon suit you?”
“Perfectly. I...”
The cry was as shrill and foreboding as a bobby’s whistle on a foggy London street. Everything and everyone came to a halt, like a motion picture suddenly frozen on a single frame. One of the waitresses was at the north end of the property beside the MacNiffs’ pool, screaming at the top of her lungs.
Nifty and I led the stampede and were first to reach the hysterical girl who pointed to the body of a young man clad in black trousers, white shirt and black bow tie, lying still at the bottom of the pool’s shallow end. He was barefoot and the butt of a cigarette floated above the body.
Young Jeff had smoked his last cigarette before dying with his boots off.