McNally's Dare (26 page)

“You think this von Brecht dame and the Emerson dame knew each other?” Al asked.

“I wouldn’t swear to it in a court of law, but Vivian Emerson looked daggers at Holga von Brecht when we all shook hands across the net. Gallo called Georgy last night telling her that Vivian Emerson had disappeared.”

“Back up, pal,” Al directed, as if he were on traffic duty. “Did this Gallo call the troopers? Is that how Georgy got in on it?”

I didn’t want to go into the nitty-gritty details, but one couldn’t get away with glossing over the facts with Sergeant Rogoff calling the shorts. “Actually, Gallo and Georgy were tight at one time.”

“How tight?”

I sighed and capitulated. “He used to live with her.”

Al looked pensive before snapping his fingers as if he had come up with a formula for curing patent baldness. “Euphemism,” he barked in triumph. “You are full of euphemisms, Archy. Tight? He was your girl’s boyfriend.”

“Which has nothing to do with the lady’s disappearance, Sergeant.”

Not unexpected, the next query was, “What’s Emerson’s relationship to this Joe Gallo?”

Knowing when to concede to the inevitable, I briefed Al on the shoddy details of Joe’s leaving Georgy’s cottage for Vivian’s commodious villa.

“You people got the morals of the barnyard,” Al criticized.

Why I was counted among the iniquitous I don’t know, and did not ask. When Al pontificates I lie low, but I couldn’t help zapping his holier-than-thou gambit with, “Didn’t someone say something about casting the first stone?”

Al pulled a stogie out of his shirt pocket and stuck it between his teeth. I didn’t know if was going to smoke it or eat it. “I ain’t casting no stones, pal, just calling it like I see it. So what happened to this Vivian Emerson?”

“Joe said she went out Thursday night, about six, and never came back. He called Georgy last night about ten. She’s been gone for over twenty-four hours.”

“Did she tell Gallo where she was going when she left?”

“I don’t know any details, Al. I’m going to see Georgy this afternoon. She gets off duty at four. I told her to call Gallo and have him meet me at her place. I’ll get the facts from him.”

“Funny he didn’t call the police,” Al speculated. “They could check to see if she had an accident and was laid up in a hospital.”

“I expect Georgy did that first thing this morning,” I said.

“You think this has something to do with the swimming pool murder, Archy?”

“Right now I don’t know what to think. But Jeff was blackmailing Lance Talbot and he got wasted. Vivian Emerson looked askance at Holga von Brecht and she disappears. Would you say it was worth your hindquarters to cross paths with our Swiss visitors?”

“Could be,” he said, looking at his watch.

“You wanted a link between Lance Talbot and someone at the MacNiff benefit. This could be it.”

“Suppose Vivian Emerson had designs on the young, handsome and rich Lance Talbot, and the von Brecht dame didn’t like it. Woman are very territorial when it comes to sons and lovers.”

I remember thinking the ladies were squabbling over Joe Gallo. Chances were Vivian Emerson had spent the night with a friend and forgot to tell her roommate her plans, or Gallo wasn’t listening when she told him.

I had kept Al long enough. I promised to keep him posted on anything Denny or I picked up regarding Jeff’s murder, and what I learned from Joe Gallo that might connect Vivian Emerson to Lance or Holga von Brecht.

“Before you go, have a look at this, Al.” I handed him the photo of Lance Talbot and Jeff Rodgers. “It was taken when they were enrolled at the Day School.”

Al put on his specs, looked at the photo and handed it back to me. “They’re dressed
pour le sport”
was his keen observation.

Herb, our security person, was off for the weekend as was most of the office staff, but there was a number of cars in the underground garage of the McNally Building, which was not unusual for a Saturday. Those working on cases found it expedient to labor at the office on a day when they would not be interrupted by ringing telephones and gabby cohorts. I went directly to the executive suite to check Mrs. Trelawney’s fax machine. The basket that holds the incoming faxes as they fall from the printer was empty.

I doubted the Swiss worked on weekends either, so I was resigned to waiting until Monday to send Herr Hermann a reminder if I had not received his reply by then.

The morning sun and surf vistas had me thinking about putting in my two miles before meeting with Georgy. Leaving the office, I decided to pick up a newspaper and stop at the club, where I could indulge myself in a leisurely read while nibbling on one of Leroy’s light lunch specials. Jell-0 and cottage cheese? A slice of melon and cottage cheese? How tempting. I couldn’t wait.

All droughts of a relaxing interlude in my life in the fast lane evaporated at the sight of Binky Watrous and Izzy Duhane lunching at my favorite table. When the gods were kind, they were very kind. When they were vindictive, they knew no mercy.

“Archy,” Izzy waved. “I’m so glad to see you.”

“I wish I could say the same,” I rejoined cheerfully.

“Come sit with us,” Izzy invited. “We’re waiting for our burgers and fries.”

“I don’t want to intrude,” I said, to no avail.

She was wearing a T-shirt that could fit a linebacker and a straw bonnet with ribbons down the back. Isadora Duhane was, if nothing else, an original. The new Binky was got up in one of those collarless shirts favored by the late Mao Tse-tung that I always thought was copied from ye olde one-piece union suit with a drop seat. I didn’t know what these two fashion plates sported below the waist and considered it the only blessing of this most bothersome encounter.

Binky and I had yet to have a good man-to-man since I had met his benefactress and seen his new acquisitions. That those doe eyes still avoided my gaze told me he was not eager to hear what I had to say. As an ego booster, Izzy had a long way to go.

“We don’t know who did it, Archy, but we think we know how it was done.” Izzy spoke as I took my place at the table.

“Do you now?” I said.

“We do,” Binky assured me, looking over my head. “Izzy visited the scene of the crime yesterday.”

“So did I. Too bad you couldn’t make it, Binky. Did you uncover anything of a forensic nature in the mail room in my absence?”

Izzy gave my shin a gentle nudge under the table as Priscilla ambled over to take my order, saving Binky from responding. God is on Binky’s side.

“The usual?” Priscilla asked.

Not wanting to keep Al Rogoff waiting, I had only had a cup of coffee before leaving the house this morning, much to Ursi’s disappointment. She wanted to hear all about the pool party, the mysterious doctor and, “Is it true the Talbot boy went in naked?” Maria Sanchez didn’t miss a nuance and Ursi would have to entertain sensual thoughts until my return.

I ordered an egg-white omelet with low-fat Alpine Lace Swiss and rye toast, dry.

“Are you sick, Archy?” Binky inquired, with genuine concern.

“No,” Izzy spoke for me. “The bathing trunks, remember?”

Gadzooks! She had told him about Lance wearing my trunks and probably written it up in her blasted notebook. I gave Binky a look that could curdle milk but he was busy examining the buttons on his union suit.

“Do you want to hear my theory?” Izzy persisted.

“Do I have a choice?”

“As a matter of fact, no,” she said. “But you’ll be happy you did.” Leaning forward for effect, she stated, “The tunnel.”

“What tunnel?”

“Archy, don’t you see?” Binky cried. “The tunnel that leads from the beach to the MacNiff property. It’s smack between the tennis courts and the pool.”

I felt those icy fingers tickle my spine.

“I noticed it yesterday,” Izzy picked up. “The gate was locked. Was it open the day of the MacNiff benefit?”

I remembered that it was and could only nod in shame.

“Then the killer didn’t have to be a guest. He could have been hiding in the tunnel, waiting for a chance to get Jeff Rodgers alone.”

Finally looking me in the eye, Binky clamored, “What do you think, Archy?”

“I think I want to return my Dick Tracy decoder ring.”

I
PULLED UP BEHIND
a Chevy Impala that had seen better days. No doubt Joseph Gallo’s, and the very car he used to escape Georgy girl in favor of Vivian Emerson. He had probably not gotten rid of it thinking one should never be without a getaway car.

It occurred to me that Georgy’s landlady, the guardian of the driveway, must have recognized the Impala as belonging to her tenant’s former roommate. Five minutes later, along comes the red Miata that belongs to her tenant’s current, albeit part-time, roommate. Was she scandalized? One could only hope so. It would put a little zest into a life full of doilies and antimacassars.

Georgy and Joe Gallo were seated in the parlor, which was furnished in early
IKEA
. He was very much as I remembered him from our last meeting—tall, dark and handsome. If I were granted three wishes by a benevolent genie, my first directive would be to have Joe Gallo and Alejandro Gomez y Zapata meet at the Colony next Thursday night and run off to Key West where they would open a B-and-B and live happily ever after. (Shame on me!)

Georgy was still in uniform, which I have always found more beguiling than her civvies. Sigmund would have something to say about that. Joe jumped up as I entered and, like a drowning man spotting a straw, I was pleased to observe that I was a shade taller than he.

“Mr. McNally,” he said, sticking out his hand.

Mister? Was that a show of respect, or a reference to my age? “We meet again,” I acknowledged.

Georgy was now up and moving towards me. She gave me a peck in sisterly fashion. “Thanks for coming, Archy. You two sit. I put up a pot of coffee and I think it’s done. I’ll get some cups and pour while Joe fills you in.”

Gallo was in oatmeal-gray sweat shorts, sneakers and a rugby shirt. Were the shorts to show off the muscular legs that Georgy so admired? Was Archy being paranoid? A handicapper would give you twelve to seven odds on a likely yes.

“The place looks good,” Gallo said, not returning to the couch he had occupied with Georgy when I entered, but taking the club chair. “Georgy told me you were into decorating.”

“Just the odd piece here and there,” I admitted. “I don’t think its changed much since...” Here came a significant pause.

“Since I left?” Gallo offered.

“No, no. Since I’ve been coming around.”

“Would you two can it and get down to business,” Lieutenant O’Hara barked from the kitchen. “You sound like characters in a coming-of-age novel.”

“I think I came and went,” Gallo called back, laughing.

Georgy also found it amusing. I didn’t, but went along for the ride. It seemed to me Georgy and Connie got on much better than Alex and I, and now, Joe Gallo and I. Was this because women are more pragmatic than we men, or was it because they didn’t mind sharing? Maybe Gallo’s namesake Joseph Smith knew what he was talking about, but this is Worth Lake, not Salt Lake.

I sat on the couch. “I met you and Vivian Emerson at the MacNiff benefit, do you recall?”

“Sure I do,” he told me. “Viv and I played a set with you just before the caterer’s boy drowned in the pool. How could I forget it? I knew who you were because I had read your interview in the
Daily News,
but I never connected your Georgia with mine.” That was met with silence, even from the kitchen. Gallo shook his head. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”

Certain he didn’t, I advocated, “Joe, we’re here to see if we can find out what happened to Vivian Emerson, not to exchange sophomoric barbs about past and present relationships. It’s uncomfortable, but we’re here and Vivian Emerson is missing.”

“Amen,” cried Georgy, with all the fervor of a revival-meeting enthusiast.

Without preamble, Joe stated, “Viv went out Thursday evening, about six I think, and I haven’t seen her since.”

“Did she say where she was going?”

He ran a hand through his hair and gazed at the ceiling. “The truth?”

“It would help” I encouraged.

“I wasn’t listening,” he admitted. “I was at my PC, working on an idea I have for a column. I was a reporter for a small press but it folded.”

Georgy did tell me Gallo had come to Florida after college when he was offered a position with a fledgling local daily.

“I want to get back in the business,” he continued. “I heard Viv, but I didn’t really listen to what she said, is what I mean.”

Georgy, lugging a crowded tray, joined us.

“Why didn’t you call the police?” I asked.

He explained that Vivian had a friend in Delray Beach she often visited. “Sometimes, when they had a few too many, she would spend the night. It was no big deal. It had happened before and I just assumed that’s where she was.”

Georgy had put the tray on the coffee table that fronted the couch. Now she poured and passed around the cups. Cream and sugar were on the tray along with a plate of chocolate-chip cookies. “Wouldn’t she call to say she was staying?” Georgy spoke my next question.

Gallo shrugged as if he were unsure of the answer, but as an experienced interviewer I knew the gesture meant, “Don’t ask.” To save him the embarrassment, and to keep us all honest, I plunged in where her lover feared to tread. “She’s a boozer, Joe, yes? And when she and her pal have those few too many the only thing she calls for is another drink.”

With a tenuous nod, he said, “That’s it, Archy. I scrambled myself a few eggs, watched the tube and went to bed. Business as usual.”

Georgy looked at him like a doting mother listening to her child’s tale of woe. He didn’t rate the sympathy. He was Vivian Emerson’s fancy man and deserved whatever he got. I made a mental note to tell Binky what befalls men who trade their virility for riches. Armani suits, pearl cufflinks and Italian cars, that’s what they get. I helped myself to a cookie.

Gallo started getting worried the following evening, when Emerson had been gone for twenty-four hours. He called the friend in Delray Beach and learned that Vivian had not been there the previous evening, or in several weeks. “I called around to a few more friends, but none of them had seen her. That’s when I called Georgy.”