McNally's Trial (7 page)

“I have a—” I started and then looked down at my empty glass. “Good Lord,” I said, “I had forgotten about the high rate of evaporation in South Florida. Yes, I would appreciate a fresh something. A dry white would be nice if it’s available.”

Fifteen minutes later we were devouring heaps of the finger foods she had requested. There was an almost infinite variety and I recall fondly the shrimp that had been sautéed in garlic and oil and then chilled. That delight was enough to make me abjure bologna sandwiches for the rest of my life.

“Archy,” she said as we nibbled, “will you do me a favor?”

“Of course. Your wish is my command.”

She was not amused. “I intend to leave about eleven o’clock,” she said. “You stay as long as you like, but would you mind stopping by my place before you go home?”

“No problem.”

“There’s something important I must discuss with you, and this is not the place to talk about it.”

“It concerns the computer printout?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Bad?” I asked.

“Very,” she said.

W
E FINISHED SCARFING
(although I could have managed seconds or even thirds) and ordered two more Frascatis at the bar. Carrying our drinks, we began a slow promenade through the crowd of celebrants.

“Sunny,” I said, “if you spot Oliver and Mitzi Whitcomb, will you point them out to me, please.”

“I’ll point them out,” she said, “but I won’t introduce you.”

“Oh? Why not?”

“I don’t think that would be smart,” she said grimly, leaving me to wonder what on earth she meant.

We looked in at the dance floor and there was Detective Binky Watrous essaying a tango with a rather flashy young woman. The trio was playing “Jealousy,” and it was obvious Binky thought himself a reincarnation of Rudolph Valentino. It was an awesome sight and I began laughing.

Sunny permitted herself one soft chuckle. “His partner”—she said—”that’s Mitzi.”

I took another look. The wife of the CEO of Whitcomb Funeral Homes was a stunner. She wore a tight sheath of silver sequins and her black hair was long enough to sit on. For her to sit on, not you. She was heavily made up and I didn’t miss the lip gloss that appeared to be phosphorescent.

I don’t wish to be ungentlemanly but there was a flagrant looseness in her dancing as if restraint was foreign to her nature. I confess her sensuousness set the McNally testosterone flowing, but even as I reacted primitively to her physical advertisements I could not help wondering what Horace and Sarah, those aristocrats, thought of their somewhat brassy daughter-in-law.

“Would you care to dance?” I asked Sunny.

“Some other time,” she said shortly, and we continued our stroll.

It was in the living room, clamorous with phatic talk, that she stopped me with a hand on my arm. “There’s Oliver Whitcomb,” she said in a low voice. “At the bar. He’s the one wearing a white dinner jacket. He’s talking to that heavy man. I don’t know who
he
is.”

I stared. Oliver was a good-looking chap, no doubt about it, wearing an outfit similar to mine except that his jacket had a shawl collar. I judged him to be about forty, and his fresh complexion suggested he was no stranger to facials. His thick black hair was as glossy as his wife’s but artfully coiffed into waves. I wondered who his barber was, knowing it couldn’t be Herman Pincus.

“I’ll leave you now,” Sunny Fogarty said. “Don’t forget to stop at my place on your way home.”

Then she was gone and I made my way over to the bar. I finished my wine and asked for a cognac. Oliver and the hefty man were close together, speaking quietly; I couldn’t catch a word.

“By the way,” I said loudly to the barkeep, “I’m looking for Oliver Whitcomb. Have you seen him this evening?”

It was a crude ploy but it worked. Oliver turned to me and flashed absolutely white teeth, so perfect they looked like scrubbed bathroom tiles. The smile was more than cordial. Mr. Charm himself.

“I’m Oliver Whitcomb,” he said.

“I’ve been hoping to meet you,” I enthused. “I’m Archy McNally, the son part of McNally and Son, your attorneys.”

His handclasp was firm enough but brief.

“Hey,” he said, “this is great! You people have been doing a great job.”

“We try,” I said modestly. “I just wanted to thank you for a magnificent bash.”

“Having fun, are you?”

“Loads,” I assured him. “And it’s only the shank of the evening.”

He looked at me with a gaze I can only describe as speculative. “Listen,” he said, “why don’t you and I do lunch. I have a feeling we have a lot in common.”

“Sounds good to me.”

“Great!” he said, apparently his favorite adjective. “I’ll give you a buzz.”

“Fine,” I said with what I hoped was a conspiratorial smile. I doubted if he’d ever call, but nothing ventured, nothing gained: an original phrase I just created. I wandered away, gripping my brandy snifter. He hadn’t introduced me to his pudgy companion. But there could be an innocent reason for that—or no reason at all.

I had noticed several small, chastely lettered signs posted about: “If you wish to smoke, please step outside to the terrace or dock.” And so, in dreadful need to inhale burning tobacco, I looked about for an exit to the terrace. I finally had to stop a passing servitor lugging a bucket of ice, and he pointed the way.

But before I had a chance to befoul the Great Outdoors I came upon a tottering Binky Watrous. His pale eyes were dazed and his checkered bow tie hung askew.

“Binky,” I asked anxiously, “are you conscious?”

He gave me a sappy grin. “I’m in love,” he said.

I looked at him. What a booby he was! “With Mitzi Whitcomb, no doubt,” I said.

He was astonished. “How did you know?”

“A wild guess.”

“She gave me her phone number,” he said proudly. “She wants to see me again. Archy, I think she’s got the hots for my damp white body.”

I was about to warn him off, but then I reflected if he was able to form an intimate relationship with the nubile Mitzi he might possibly discover details of the younger Whitcombs’ activities that would further our investigation.

“I congratulate you on your good fortune, Binky,” I said solemnly. “Keep your ears open. Pillow talk and all that.”

I don’t believe he grasped what I implied, for he merely shouted, “Party on!” and staggered away in search of the nearest bar.

I found the wide, flagstoned terrace facing Lake Worth, but it was crowded with gabbling guests as intent as I on corroding their lungs. I lighted up and went down a side staircase of old railroad ties to the deepwater dock. I was alone there and could enjoy a brief respite from the brittle chatter.

I would have guessed Mr. Horace Whitcomb owned a fine, woodbodied sloop or something similar. But moored to the dock was an incredible boat: a perfectly restored 1930 Chris-Craft mahogany runabout. It was a 24-footer, a treasured relic of the days when men in white flannels drank Sazeracs and women in middy blouses sipped Orange Blossoms while zipping about offshore waters.

I was admiring the sleek lines of this legendary craft when I sniffed the aroma of a good cigar and turned to find our host. He was holding a lighted cheroot and regarding me with a pleased smile.

“Like her?” he inquired.

“She’s a pip!” I said. “Operational?”

“Fully. We used to go out frequently but then my wife became ill and...” His voice trailed away.

“Surely your son must enjoy piloting a classic like this.”

He took a puff of his cigar. “I think not. My son’s taste runs to hydroplanes and Jet Skis. You’ve met Oliver?”

“Yes, sir. Just a few moments ago.”

“And what was your reaction?” he asked unexpectedly.

I was cautious. “I thought him very personable,” I said.

“Oh yes, he is that.” Horace tossed his half-smoked cigar into the lake, and I heard a faint sizzle. “His mother dotes on him.”

I wanted to ask if he also doted on his son, but that would have been an impertinence.

“Tell me, Archy,” he said, “do you admire things of the past?”

“Incurably addicted,” I confessed. “I’m a nostalgia buff. Two of my favorite comics are Bert Lahr and Ed Wynn, though I never saw either of them perform live.”

“I did,” he said, “and they were even better than you think. But I was referring to antiques. I collect ship models, mostly sailing men-of-war. I have the
Chesapeake, Serapis, Victory, Constitution,
and several others. They were made by master craftsmen. I thought you might like to see them.”

“I would indeed, Mr. Whitcomb. I enjoy reading about old naval battles. Wooden ships and iron men, eh?”

His smile was hard. “Exactly,” he said. “Give me a call whenever you’d like to view my collection. And now I must get back to our guests. My wife has already retired and so I shall make the farewells.”

“It was a marvelous party, sir,” I called after him. “Thank you for having me.”

He didn’t turn but gave me a wave of his hand in acknowledgment. It seemed obvious he was saddened by his wife’s illness. But I also detected an undercurrent of anger that perplexed me.

I smoked another coffin nail, pacing slowly up and down the planked dock, admiring the play of moonlight on the gently rippling surface of the lake. I had many sharp, jagged impressions of that MTV evening but was in too bemused a state to sort them out. I could do that on the morn when, hopefully, I would have slept all befuddlements away and awakened with a clear, concise revelation of the toil and trouble bubbling at Whitcomb’s.

I finished my cigarette, drained the last drop of cognac, and went back inside with every intention of leaving immediately and hightailing it to the home of Sunny Fogarty. But there was a short delay.

I attempted to move through the throng of departing guests—all of whom were pausing to pick up their favors: crystal paperweights with a little replica of a Ford Model T encapsulated for gentlemen and, for ladies, a tiny sprig of edelweiss. You may scorn this as kitsch but think of how much more tasteful it was man if the owner of Whitcomb Funeral Homes had handed out miniature caskets suitable for pencils, paper clips, or condoms.

I was about to slip away (I really had no use for a paperweight) when a heavy hand clamped about my left bicep. I turned and faced the chubby gent who had been conversing with Oliver Whitcomb at me bar. He tugged me away from me crowd, his grip still tight on my arm. I finally shook him loose.

“Hey,” he said. “Ollie tells me you’re a lawyer. Right?”

He was a gloriously rumpled man wearing a wrinkled dinner jacket that looked as if he had been snoozing in it for a fortnight. He wasn’t quite obese, but a lot of rare roast beef had gone into that protruding paunch, those meaty shoulders and bulging thighs.

“I’m not an attorney,” I told him, trying to be civil, “but my father is. I assist him.”

“Yeah?” he said with a wiseacre grin. “Like a gofer, huh?”

I kept my cool; give me credit for that. “No,” I said, “not like a gofer. My duties are somewhat more extensive.”

“Oh sure,” he said. “Just kidding. You got a card? Maybe I can throw some business your way.”

I took out my wallet and extracted a card, imagining what my father’s reaction would be to a stranger telling him, “Maybe I can throw some business your way.”

The fat one examined my card. “Archibald McNally,” he said. “What kind of a moniker is that?”

“A serviceable one,” I said. “And what is your alias?” He looked at me, startled. “Just kidding,” I told him. “Like you were.”

“Oh, yeah, sure,” he said, and dug a creased business card from his jacket pocket and handed it over.

“Ernest Gorton,” I read aloud. “Import-export.”

“That’s right. But you can call me Ernie.”

“Wonderful,” I said. “And you may call me Archy. What do you import and export, Ernie?”

“This and that.”

“I hope this and that are profitable.”

“Sometimes yes and sometimes no,” he said. He had twinkly eyes set in a mournful bloodhound face.

“I see your business is located in Miami. That’s your home?”

“Yep. You ever been there?”

“Many times.”

“Next time you’re in town, look me up.”

“I certainly shall,” I said, thinking never, never, never.

“Maybe you and me can do some business together,” he said. “Have a few laughs, make a few bucks.”

I had absolutely no idea what he meant and had no desire to find out.

“Nice meeting you, Mr. Gorton,” I said.

“Ernie.”

“Ah yes—Ernie. Now I’ve got to dash.”

“Love the way you talk,” he said. “Real fancy.”

“Thank you,” I said and fled.

S
UNNY FOGARTY GREETED ME
at the door of her condo holding a pilsner of beer. I made a rapid mental calculation of the number and variety of spirituous beverages I had consumed that evening, beginning with the family cocktail hour: gin martini, vodka gimlet, white wine, cognac. I reckoned a beer might push me beyond the point of no return, but then I took solace from the traditional collegiate dictum: “Beer, whiskey: rather risky. Whiskey, beer: have no fear.”

Sunny ushered me into her living room, motioned me to an armchair, and brought me a duplicate of her glass of suds.

“It’s Budweiser,” she informed me. “I have nothing more exotic.”

“Bud is fine,” I assured her and swilled half my drink to prove it.

“Has the party ended?” she asked.

“It was breaking up as I departed.”

“I think it went well, don’t you?”

“It went beautifully. I saw no one upchuck, no one was falling-down drunk, and there were no fights. Ergo, a successful bash. You planned it, didn’t you, Sunny?”

She was embarrassed; her gaze slid away. “How did you know?”

“Mrs. Sarah Whitcomb is obviously in no condition to organize a celebration of that magnitude, and I don’t believe Mr. Horace has the know-how. And Mitzi and Oliver haven’t the talent, time, or the interest in arranging a jamboree like that.”

“You’re right,” she said, “on all counts. You do see things, don’t you? Well, I’m happy it went off so well. Did you personally enjoy it?”

“Indeed I did. A very intriguing evening. Binky Watrous has fallen in love with Mitzi Whitcomb.”