McNally's Dare (22 page)

Things perked up with the arrival of Jackson Barnett. I could have kissed Helen MacNiff for having remembered to invite him. He was in (what else?) tennis shorts and a polo shirt with crossed rackets over the breast. I believe he endorsed the shirts as well as the white sneakers he was parading around in, shaking hands, smiling, and looking like a Greek god among us mortals.

He was accompanied by his agent and a group of Hollywood types, recognizable as such by their wraparound sunglasses, closely cropped hair in a variety of shades Mother Nature never dreamed of inflicting on her children, and Gucci loafers. Nifty, I noticed, greeted the Guccibaggers as if they were the great white hope. The agent wore his custom-made suit, black silk tie and nervous tic.

Mrs. MacNiff told me later that she had invited Barnett, telling him the purpose of the gathering was to establish the Jeffrey Rodgers memorial, and he was more than happy to do his share. I imagine Jackson Barnett would go to the opening of an envelope if he thought it could get him some press. Lolly was now bouncing between Denny, Izzy and Jackie like the silver ball in a pin-ball machine going for a grand slam.

None of the celebrated arrivals was toting a tote, so if they didn’t have their swimsuits under their trousers they had no intention of taking a dip.

This was not going well.

I went to the bar for a much needed jolt to my system and as Todd mixed my gin and tonic he nervously asked me if I knew any of the men with Jackson Barnett. “The guy in the undertaker garb is his agent, I’m sure, and the others must be the Hollywood contingent.” I recalled that these were just the people Todd wanted to meet and hopefully impress.

“Do you know any of them, Mr. McNally?”

“Sorry, kid. But look, when they come for a drink dazzle them with your charm and give them a few of Biff’s lines from
Salesman.”

“They won’t know I’m alive, Mr. McNally.”

My experienced eye told me that some of them would certainly know Todd was alive, but it was best the boy didn’t know this—or was I being naive?

Denny, Jackson, Izzy and Lolly were in a huddle, and I think Izzy was playing cruise director. How did that girl do it? She was in shorts with a sailor’s middy that was rather fetching. No neckerchief and no pearls.

I found our host and told him it was time for him to make his announcement and rally the troops into the pool.

“What should I say, Archy?”

“Something on the order of Marc Antony’s eulogy for Caesar.”

“You want me to say I come here to bury Jeff Rodgers, not to praise him? You’re daft, Archy.”

“No, sir. Say we’re here not to mourn, but to celebrate the memory of a young man who was the victim of a heinous crime and to establish a memorial to Jeff Rodgers in the form of ongoing scholarships to worthy young men and women.”

I rambled on extemporaneously, which is my forte, as Nifty listened, nodded, and finally whispered, “Let’s get our feet wet.”

I clapped my hands to draw the attention of those gathered who were only too happy to stop pretending to be having fun and assemble around Nifty and me.

Nifty cleared his throat, opened his arms and began his oration with, “We’re here not to mourn...” and in a few well-chosen words, some of them mine, got the message across with a minimum of schmaltz and a plethora of showbiz pizazz. He was politely applauded and the ice was broken, which saved me the trouble of fetching a blowtorch.

Seeing Dennis Darling holding up his recorder to tape Nifty’s speech, Jackson Barnett couldn’t resist getting in on the act. In a voice trained for television commercials, Jackson announced, “I will donate one thousand dollars to the scholarship fund for every person who jumps in the pool in the next ten minutes.”

Amid an outbreak of screams, giggles and friendly moans, there began a mad scramble to the changing pavilions.

This was the scene that welcomed the arrival of Lance Talbot, Holga von Brecht and
Herr Doktor
von Brecht.

I
N THE MAD SCRAMBLE
to donate a thousand bucks to Nifty’s philanthropic cause without opening their wallets, no one took much notice of the new arrivals. I did see the MacNiff housekeeper, Maria Sanchez, puttering around the buffet table and watched as she took off for the house to call Ursi and report that the husband of the ninety-year-old lady with the twenty-year-old lover had just landed.

Thus began rumors of the most titillating domestic triangle since the Windsors shacked up with playboy Jimmy Donahue at the Donahue Palm Beach mansion. Then, as now, who was doing what to whom was the question. Lolly, who never removes his white suit and hat except to don his silk jammies, looked like a man on the verge of expiring from sheer bliss. A celebrated journalist, a Battle offspring, a tennis pro who looked like Adonis and, now, the Michelangelo of cosmetic surgery, all in the same place at the same time, and all within arm’s reach.

Dr. von Brecht was an inch or two over six feet and carried himself so ramrod straight I thought he might be wearing a corset under his beautifully tailored light gray suit. His fair hair was parted on the left and cut short enough to lie dormant in a wind tunnel. He didn’t click his heels together when he took Mrs. MacNiff’s hand, but he did bow and say something that seemed to please her. He was as good-looking as casting directors allowed German officers to be in old World War II movies. The only thing missing was a monocle in his left eye.

Holga von Brecht looked the quintessence of the Palm Beach socialite in a navy, knee-length dress with spaghetti straps that alternatingly hung and clung as she walked. A wide-brimmed white hat protected her delicate skin from the sun and a pair of dark glasses shielded her eyes.

Lance was in jeans, a pocket tee and sneakers, but not the brand Jackson Barnett endorsed.

As the MacNiffs performed their hosting chores, I lolled in the background. Denny got himself a drink from Todd and then surreptitiously meandered to where I was standing. “I was afraid he wasn’t going to show up,” Denny said, extending his hand as if introducing himself.

“He was at the airport picking up Holga’s husband,” I reported, shaking Denny’s hand. I wondered if we looked as silly as I felt. “That’s Dr. Claus von Brecht of the clinic high in the Alps where he injects patients with something unmentionable at the dinner table.”

“We all know who he is,” Denny said.

“Really? How?”

“Mrs. MacNiff,” he answered with a smile. “She told everyone that the famous doctor would make his Palm Beach debut right here this afternoon. That’s how she got all the ladies to come. And, she told Jackie Barnett that I would be here to cover the christening of the newly named charity event for
Bare Facts.
Sassy lady, no?”

“Yes. And I’m glad she’s on our side,” I said.

“So what’s new?” Denny asked.

“Lance explained Jeff’s bragging about coming into money by saying that he had offered to financially back Jeff in buying a bar and restaurant business up north. He’s also curious as to what you’re doing here. Worried might be a more apt description than curious.

“I got the impression that Jeff threatened Lance by telling him he would sell his story—whatever that might be—to you and Lance wants to know just how much Jeff told you before he met his untimely death.”

“You don’t believe that Lance was going to back Jeff?” Denny said.

“After talking to Lance, I wasn’t sure who to believe, Lance Talbot or Jeff Rodgers. This morning I talked to Jeff’s father. He said Jeff boasted of coming into money, but he didn’t say where it was coming from. Why? I mean why wouldn’t he tell his father that his rich boyhood buddy was playing Father Christmas? Everyone who knew him says Jeff wasn’t reticent when it came to boasting about his expectations, real or imagined, and of his former but brief enrollment at the Day School.

“If Lance was backing him, Jeff would have taken an ad in the shiny sheet to announce the union. Instead he calls you and wants to know how much you’d pay for a tell-all story on Lance Talbot.”

“Conclusion,” Denny concluded. “Jeff was blackmailing his old buddy.”

“I don’t think there’s any question about it. Lance also gave Mr. Rodgers ten thousand dollars in Jeff’s memory.”

“To atone or to keep Rodgers silent, in case Jeff confided in his father?”

“Perhaps hedging his bets,” I answered. “I don’t think Rodgers suspects a thing, unless he put on a good show for me, which I’m not buying. The man is painfully credulous.”

“In case you haven’t noticed,” Denny said, “Lance Talbot can’t keep his eyes off us.”

“Oh, but I have noticed, Denny. He looks like a kid who wants to get away from the adults and have some fun.”

“That’s exactly why I chose to engage you in private conversation in the broad light of day. I want him to wonder and worry what we’re up to. Give him another minute and he’ll join us to try and find out.”

The guests were now coming out of the changing rooms and jumping into the pool. Barnett was making a display of counting heads as his agent ticked off the time. I saw Izzy take the plunge in a two-piece affair, showing off a girlish figure that was still a bit too lean for my taste. When the agent called time, Barnett was ten thousand bucks poorer. To show what a sport he was, Jackie pulled off his polo shirt with the crossed rackets, yanked off his sneakers and, holding his nose like a kid at a swimming hole, went feet first into the deep end of the pool. For the second time that day the guests burst into applause.

“What is Isadora Duhane doing here?” I wondered aloud.

Denny shrugged. “I think she’s a guest of one of the MacNiffs’ guests. Lolly told me her mother is a Battle. Big bucks there, Archy.”

“She’s a pain in the lower regions,” I told him. “She wants to write a book based on my cases, and has managed to seduce a friend of mine into telling tales out of school.”

Denny started. “Seduced as in debauched?”

“I think so, Denny, but I don’t know what she sees in him.”

“Men seldom do know what a lady sees in the competition, or prefer to ignore it. I think she’s cute.”

“So does Jackson Barnett, I noticed.”

“He has no choice,” Denny said. “Lolly told me one of her mother’s holding companies manufactures the shirts and sneakers Barnett endorses.”

At any Palm Beach gathering, sooner or later, the talk turns to money and its source. With Lolly Spindrift playing Virgil to Denny’s Dante, Denny was now acquainted with the cash flow of most of the people present, and from whence their cash flowed. It was money, I daresay, that kept the MacNiff crowd, all of a certain age, looking so trim in their swimsuits. Personal trainers, golf, tennis, a stress-free existence and the occasional nip, tuck and chemical peel was the secret of their success.

When the hoopla over Jackson’s largess simmered down, the now motivated partygoers could turn their undivided attention to Holga von Brecht and her creator. As the von Brechts, led by Nifty and Mrs. MacNiff, began their rounds, the ladies climbed out of the pool and reached for their robes. The men, seeing von Brecht’s stance, pulled in their tummies. Lance took the moment to make his break and head our way.

“Here we go,” Denny whispered.

“I’ll hang around long enough not to appear rude, then leave you to your investigative prying. I think he would rather tackle you alone, and I’m on his payroll, remember?”

“You’re on my payroll, too, McNally, remember that.”

“Welcome to Palm Beach, Denny Darling.”

“May I join you?” Lance said, as he approached.

“Be my guest,” I invited. “This is Dennis Darling, but watch your manners. He’s here to tell lies about us and anything you say will be held against you.”

Lance held out his hand languidly and I wasn’t sure if he expected Denny to shake it or kiss it. I was happy to see Denny give it a manly squeeze that had Lance Talbot wincing. I must remember to introduce Denny to that other bonecrusher, Alejandro Gomez y Zapata.

“We met on the tennis court right here,” Lance said to Denny. “Do you recall?”

“It was a day not easily forgotten,” Denny responded, unobtrusively bringing the subject of Jeff’s murder into the conversation.

How clever. I used Denny’s opener to further my own cause. “You missed it, but Mr. MacNiff made the announcement I told you about last night. Everyone is taking a swim to commemorate the occasion and Jeff’s life. I hope you’ll join in, Lance.”

“I would, Mr. McNally, but I’m afraid I didn’t bring a proper swimsuit.”

I wanted to stamp my feet, jump up and down, and
scream.
I had dared the MacNiffs to put on this show in the face of adversity for the sole purpose of getting Lance out of his shoes and socks and into the pool. Or out of his shoes and socks, period. As he didn’t appear to be wearing socks, I was halfway there, but halfway didn’t cut the mustard. I was skunked.

“Jackson Barnett took the plunge in his tennis shorts,” I said, avoiding Denny’s baffled stare.

“Are you suggesting I drop my jeans and do the same in my underpants, Mr. McNally?”

“Please,” I stammered. “That would be inappropriate.”

“Good,” Lance said with a chuckle, “because I’m not wearing any.” He winked at Denny, and the two burst out laughing, as if the joke were on me—and I guess it was.

“You were a friend of Jeff Rodgers?” Denny asked when civility was restored.

“I was. Did Jeff tell you that?” Lance asked, as if it were common knowledge that Jeff and Denny had spoken.

Denny, as well as I, realized at once that Lance was openly admitting that he knew Jeff had communicated with Dennis Darling. He had not admitted this to me, but under Denny’s scrutiny he was doing an about-face, which was just what I had hoped for. You win some and you lose some.

Or had Lance been advised not to match wits with Dennis Darling? I glanced at the von Brechts who were now on the business end of a receiving line, emulating royalty at a command performance.

“He told me you two were old friends,” Denny said. “So did Mr. McNally.”

Lance turned to me. “You told Mr. Darling about Jeff and me?” It was half question, half accusation. This guy had the
cojones
of a brass monkey.