“SUCCOTASH,” SHE ANNOUNCED WITH the élan of Georges Escoffier presenting his boeuf Wellington to a panel of hungry epicures.
As I entered these words in my journal I smiled at the recollection of the amusing dish and the chef who was a namesake of the renowned Frenchman. I am alone in my garret a few hours before dawn, and, in case no one has noticed, in a poetic frame of mind.
After rendezvousing once again with Officer O’Hara to discuss further developments in the ongoing investigation of “A Voice from the Grave,” I am transported back in time to when we children would pick a daisy from the earth and pluck its petals while chanting, “She loves me; she loves me not.” The line that coincided with the last petal would seal our fate with the pigtailed enchantress of our daydreams.
Stuffed with succotash, tipsy on a pretentious wine and not yet recovered from a good-night kiss that gave new meaning to the word lingering, I am the embodiment of a charming lyric from my favorite Broadway show, “... full of foolish song.” And, mayhaps my fate is sealed, but before the cement sets let me digress to the events that led to this rapture before it cools in the warmth of the rising sun.
I engaged Binky as a ghost breaker, and, I’m afraid, he showed little enthusiasm for the role.
“It’s creepy,” he complained when I explained his assignment.
“All you have to do is check out the old Beaumont mansion a few times every evening between ten and midnight.” These hours were as arbitrary as everything else about this bit of nonsense, but before I sent Tyler packing I could honestly say we set up surveillance and found nothing.
“Do I have to get out of my car?”
“It wouldn’t hurt. A quick turn around the lawn and back to the safety of your armored tank.”
Binky was not convinced. “Suppose I trip over people bonking?” he posed.
“Excuse yourself, move on and keep your eyes on those upstairs windows. Really, Binky, this is a very simple commission.”
Looking pensive, he challenged, “What if I see a light in one of those windows?”
Now, that was something I’d not thought of because I didn’t believe such a light existed, and I told Binky so.
“Then my assignment is to look for something that doesn’t exist,” he concluded.
“Exactly.”
“That’s nuts, Archy, and you know it.”
“It’s not nuts,” I informed him, “it’s integrity. I will not tell my client I looked and found nothing unless I look and find nothing. He might be a disturbed young man, but he’s sincere and I intend to act in good faith.”
“He’s also a rich young man,” Binky commented. “Ten to midnight is time and a half, and after midnight it’s double time.”
What was this? Did he expect payment for his services? It was those damn credit cards that made him so mercenary as to forget his apprentice status. “Keep your eyes on those windows,” I ordered, “and off my billing sheet. After the champagne and tournedos, you’ll be indebted to me for the rest of your life.”
Remembering his hangover, he began his retreat in search of ice water. “If I see a light,” he mumbled, “I’ll run.”
“If you see a light, get on your cell phone and dial nine-one-one. They’ll relay the call to the nearest patrol car and in minutes you’ll have company. If Sergeant Rogoff is still pulling the graveyard shift, it may be your neighbor who comes to the rescue.”
Relieved, Binky managed a sad smile, saying, “Thanks, Archy. That’s just what I’ll do.”
Insisting on the last word, I reminded him, “You will then owe Al your life as well as a teaspoon of sugar.”
Alone once more, I looked at my list of calls, all marked urgent. I put a tick next to the tick next to Lolly Spindrift’s name. That made it look as if I had called him twice. I put a line through the second tick and told myself that if I did not light a cigarette I was cured of the habit. Then I told myself that if I had one now and skipped the one after dinner I would still be true to my regimen. Here, I was saved by the bell. The telephone bell, that is.
It was Mrs. Trelawney. My father was free and would like a word, if you please. Before I could oblige, the phone rang yet again, causing me to reconsider the installation of an answering machine. A ringing telephone is anathema to my nervous system, but I was immediately appeased when I heard the caller’s voice. It was Georgy girl. I opened my desk drawer, found the hidden pack of English Ovals and lit one.
“My first call was a bread and butter,” she said, “and the second was to let you know that Rodney Whitehead was coming in to be questioned. This call is to tell you he’s been and had his say.”
I remembered her cautioning me to lay off her suspects so kept quiet about the pastrami on rye I had shared with the man. Was it Euripides who wrote, “The gods wear many faces/And many fates fulfill, to work their will.” Loosely translated, God works in mysterious ways. My decision not to disclose my meeting with Whitehead got me a second date with my clandestine collaborator.
“Would you like to know what he had to say?” she teased.
“I’m all ears, officer.”
“Not on the phone,” she said. “Are you free this evening?”
Having nothing on my agenda that couldn’t be broken, I said I was free without consulting my calendar. “Do you want to meet in the dark corner of a disreputable pub? I’ll wear a beard and shades.”
“And I’ll put on a black wig like Dietrich in Witness for the Prosecution,” she joined in. I must say she knew her flicks. “But it would be more comfortable at my place. If you promise to behave, I’ll cook.”
“I’ll be there at eight, but I make no promises.”
“Then I’ll have to take my chances.”
“Is this a business meeting, officer?”
“It is,” she said, sounding as if she meant it. “This case is dragging on too long for comfort, and my boss wants to give the papers something to shout about, like ‘Murder Solved’ in bold type, and I need your input. He’s close to reading Harrigan or Whitehead their rights.”
“Does that mean I’m out of the running?”
“It means you’re on a back burner. If we get desperate, we’ll turn up the heat.”
“Georgy, would you cook dinner for a suspected murderer?” I asked her.
“If I thought I could nail him, I’d even let him stick around for dessert.”
That pert answer was rife with innuendo, and I felt myself flush. Why do I always fall for women lacking in timidity? Freud would say it’s because opposites attract, reducing me to a Milquetoast. I say it’s because such women have humor, street smarts, are independent, exciting and a challenge. They might also know how to cook, but that remained to be seen.
“Tell me,” I said, “why not Harrigan and Whitehead?”
“Let’s toss that around over dinner. See you about eight.”
I would rather toss it around over dessert.
Father was in neutral, meaning he was neither stroking nor tugging at his whiskers. I hoped to keep him idling for the duration of my visit. As always, he was immaculately attired in a vested business suit, white shirt and a rep silk tie. Father abhorred anything garish in his apparel, and therefore the Old Glory lapel pin he now wore with pride was a conspicuous sign of the times.
His desk was cluttered with briefs, perhaps a result of his last client meeting, but two newspapers took center stage. Even reading upside down, the names Capote and Fortesque stood out in both headlines.
“This business has certainly taken on a life of its own,” he said when I was seated.
“It’s the names involved, sir,” I responded, nodding at the newspapers. “The murder of a relatively unknown man in a shoddy motel would be relegated to page five, if nothing juicier turned up to knock it off the editor’s desk. The author and the playboy have always been gist for the tabloids’ mills.” Calling Decimus Fortesque a playboy had me suppressing a smile.
“It’s just unfortunate that you had to get involved in this one,” father said.
“As you know, sir, I wasn’t aware of what I was getting into when I agreed to help Claudia Lester.” This implied that had I known I would have refused the assignment, which was not true. There was nothing I liked better than a case that garnered public notice, especially when it extended beyond the borders of my county and state. It boosted my image as well as my fees. Contrary to father’s more conservative opinion, I think it helped rather than hindered the cause of McNally & Son. However, this was neither the time nor the place to argue the point.
“What’s your position now?” he asked. “I assume the murder investigation is being conducted by the police and that you are cooperating.”
The last time I had discussed the case with father I had met with O’Hara and spoken to Claudia Lester at Bradley House. Now I brought him up to date with an account of my interviews with Harrigan and Whitehead. Being a lawyer, father is a good listener. Being a good lawyer, he jotted down a few notes along the way.
When I was done, he leaned back in his chair and began, “It seems to me that the sole object of this escapade is to get more than fifty thousand for that manuscript by either selling it again to another buyer or forcing Fortesque to come up with more money if he wanted to hang on to what he almost had. Were they content with the original sum agreed upon, we would not be having this conversation. It seems someone is running a private auction with Fortesque and an unknown or unknowns vying for the prize.”
I agreed, saying, “I think Fortesque made them an offer and wouldn’t go a penny more. If they canvassed the manuscript to other collectors and received a better offer, Fortesque would not now be minus fifty thousand and I would have been spared a bump on the head.”
Unspoken was the fact that I would also not have met Georgy girl.
I went on to say, “Fortesque was their target because they had inside information regarding his taste for the esoteric. I speak of his third wife, Vera Fortesque, a friend of Claudia Lester.”
Gadzooks! The lightbulb did not merely pop—it exploded. That’s always the way with a case. The break comes when you least expect it. I wanted to jump up and clap my hands, but that would be uncouth. It would also be foolish. My epiphany could not be taken on faith alone. It needed proving, and stealth, not exposé, was the means to that end. I would have to play my hand close to the vest or it could cost me the game.
Distracted, I heard but did not perceive all father said, but did manage to snap out of my silent musing in time to hear him ask, “Of the three, who do you think might be telling the truth?”
“Harrigan,” I said, without a moment’s hesitation. “He’s the novice of the team and the easiest to be duped by the other two. Also, I don’t think he has the smarts or the nerve to lie to the police and keep his cool. The other two could walk away from a third-degree grilling with dry foreheads. Harrigan contacted me because he wanted information. I think he was genuinely surprised to learn I never delivered the money to Lester and even more shocked to hear about Swensen’s death.
“I say this knowing his story is flawed. Why would Whitehead agree to a three-way split when he was getting half from Swensen?”
Father shook his head. “It seems to me, Archy, all three are malefactors and congenital liars, yet you credit or discredit each of their statements based on the testimony of the other two libelers. Because Whitehead told you he was getting half from Swensen is not proof that he had struck such an agreement with the murdered man. The only fact I conclude from your evidence is that all three are intent upon making the other two look like rotters.”
Everyone is familiar with Murphy’s law, which, incidentally, Mr. Murphy borrowed from the mathematics genius, Pythagoras, who observed a few thousand years ago that “anything which can happen can happen to you.” But a lesser-known, and perhaps original, Murphy edict is the Law of Forgiveness, which asserts that one can be forgiven if wrong, but never if right—and Prescott McNally was right. ’Nuff said?
“I take it,” my learned colleague was saying, “that you have severed your ties with Claudia Lester and have now been engaged by Decimus Fortesque to retrieve that confounded manuscript or his money. Correct?”
“That is correct, sir.”
“And just how do you intend to do that, Archy?”
“I have no idea, sir.”
“Nonsense,” father insisted, slipping out of idle and going into high gear. “The only way you can learn what became of the manuscript or Fortesque’s money is by solving the murder of Lawrence Swensen, a job better left to the police.”
I jumped on that like a cowboy mounting a bucking bronco. “As you hoped, sir, I am cooperating with the police.”
“Over cocktails and dinner?”
From the mail boy to the secretary to the CEO. So much for my stint at the rodeo. “I will admit to mixing business with pleasure. We did discuss the case.”
Father sighed as if he were much put upon. “You know, Archy, I never interfere in your personal life, and I have no intention of starting now.”
That declaration is always followed by the word however, and it came right on cue.
“However, I think it was imprudent for you and this policewoman to be seen carrying on in public while you are both involved in a murder investigation.”
“In all fairness to Officer O’Hara, sir, the dinner meeting was at my suggestion. Remember, I was a possible suspect. I wanted to sit down with her to clear myself as well as offer my help.”
“Granted,” he said, “but I wish you would have chosen a more appropriate venue for the conference. When and if this goes to trial, a defense attorney could make much of such a meeting to the detriment of the prosecution. Officer O’Hara should be aware of that.”
This was true, if rather far-fetched and not like father. I had collaborated with the police before this, especially with Al Rogoff, and father had never opposed the stratagem. Based on this and my refusal to act covertly with my boss and kin, I told father that I was meeting yet again with Officer O’Hara this evening, and this time in her home.
My candor was rewarded with an appreciative nod. “I assume the relationship has taken on a more personal aspect.”
Not retreating, I answered, “I hope that is the case.”
He gave that some thought before changing the subject or, better put, taking a different route to where this was leading. He told me mother, too, had read the newspaper account of the murder and my attack in the parking lot. “She’s worried, Archy, which aggravates her condition.”
I would forsake everything dear to keep mother healthy and happy, which was not a secret in the McNally household. Not having to defend my position, I simply sidestepped the issue. “I will talk to her, sir. I have before, and it helps.”
“I’m sure it will,” he said, “but what would please her most, and myself, is to see you settle down. We have long thought that you and Connie—”
“We were never formally engaged, sir,” I cut in, none too gently, “and at the present, as we all know, Connie is seeing another man.”
“Then perhaps you should be more demonstrative,” he advised.
Father had never sat me down to discuss the birds and the bees, and I hoped he wasn’t going to now. In truth, I found this conversation rather embarrassing and was certain that he was doing it only because mother had asked him to. It was surely as disconcerting to him as it was to me. Perhaps even more so.
The thought only made me feel worse. Would I ever know a love even approaching my father’s for my mother? Did I want to know such a love? As if in answer to my thoughts, I heard myself say, “Right now, sir, I don’t know that I want to be more demonstrative.”
“I don’t mean to meddle, Archy.”
“I’m sure you don’t, sir.” Not being a C. B. DeMille, I couldn’t shout “Cut” and have done with this painful scene, so I did the next-best thing and asked, “Now, would you like to hear what Tyler Beaumont had to say?”
With evident relief, he answered, “That’s why I wanted to see you.”
Really? You could have fooled me.
After relaying Tyler’s bizarre tale, father looked as if segueing from my love life to Tyler Beaumont’s fantasy life was akin to leaping from the ludicrous to the preposterous. “It’s hard to believe Lolly’s assertion,” father said. “I chatted with the boy over a cup of tea, and he sounded perfectly normal. In fact, I thought he was rather charming.”
“That he is,” I acquiesced, “and perfectly lucid. What he has to say is the problematic part of the equation.”
“Is Lolly a reliable source on this matter?”
“When it comes to high society, Lolly is a walking encyclopedia. Trust me on that, sir. I’ve engaged Binky to keep a sporadic watch. I may also mention it to Al Rogoff, as he was the catalyst of this inanity. I refuse to ignore Tyler’s request with a wink and a nod.”
Father liked that, as I was sure he would. “I wonder if we should contact his family?” he said.
“That would be a betrayal of his confidence and against my ethics. If they’re concerned, I’m sure they’ll find him. He has friends here who seem to be in touch with his people.”
“Very good, Archy.” Father made a display of removing the newspapers from his desk, indicating our meeting was over. “You will keep me posted.”
“Of course, sir.”
“On the Fortesque case, too,” he quickly put in.
I stood up to leave. “I may have a breakthrough to report on that sooner than expected.”
“You sound more optimistic than you did when you came in.”
“If I am, it’s because of our talk.” I stopped at the door and turned to face him. “Nothing you said went unheeded, sir.”