McNally's Dare (3 page)

Experience and close observation told me what I knew the PM would find: Jeffrey Rodgers was done in by a person or persons unknown. I said as much to my father as soon as I had poured the wine and we had each lit up our nicotine of choice.

“Are you certain, Archy?”

“Unless he had some sort of seizure or stroke, which I doubt, I don’t see how a healthy, young six-footer could drown in three feet of water. Even if he fell into the pool by accident, which I also doubt, he could have picked himself up and climbed out. I think the police will discover he was rendered unconscious, dumped into the pool and left to drown.”

Father stroked his bushy guardsman mustache and shook his head. “In the broad light of day before more than a hundred people? It just doesn’t seem possible.”

But it was possible simply because it had been done. “You know the MacNiff property, sir. Five acres, running north and south. Mr. MacNiff’s beloved tennis courts are almost directly behind the house at the extreme south end of the property. The pool is at the extreme north end of the property because I believe Mr. MacNiff found it a distraction for serious players, especially when his grandchildren and their friends cavorted in the water.

“The courts and the pool are five acres apart. Everyone was congregated around the courts and buffet tables. With all the activity in that area no one was looking in the opposite direction. Rodgers’s shoes and socks were found near the pool. The police soon learned that the help was using the pool area as a retreat on their breaks as a place to grab a smoke or stick their feet in the cool water.

“I think it’s obvious that Rodgers was sitting at the edge of the pool enjoying a smoke and soaking his feet. Someone most likely came up behind him, clobbered him and tossed him in the water. If the help was using the pool area as a hangout, anyone glancing in that direction would have become accustomed to seeing a few of the wait staff hanging out there. From that distance all one would see was the murderer’s back, never knowing that Jeff was sitting in front of him.”

Yes, Jeff Rodgers could have been clobbered and dumped into the pool in the broad light of day, and I was convinced that he had been.

The ambulance and police were on the scene in less than ten minutes after someone had the good sense to punch out 911 on their cell phone. My friend and occasional cohort, Sergeant Al Rogoff, was part of the police contingent but, as is our custom, we did not exchange more than a nod in the ensuing pandemonium. When Rodgers was taken away on a stretcher, covered from head to foot, the boys and girls who were his friends sobbed openly and clung to each other for comfort. The girl who had discovered the body was being tended to by the paramedics. The scene, as one may imagine, was eerily incongruous with the splendid weather and the palatial surroundings.

The rest of the guests wandered about aimlessly, whispering in small groups, awkwardly shifting their tennis racquets from hand to hand. The caterers busied themselves with clearing the tables. Nothing like a sudden death to spoil a party.

I stayed close to Mr. and Mrs. MacNiff and their guest of honor, Jackson Barnett, the latter looking a little pale under his tan. The pro was a publicity hound but this wasn’t the kind of notoriety that would help him secure more product endorsements. Lolly Spindrift was on his cell phone, calling in the story, and Dennis Darling was here, there and everywhere all at once, chatting into a portable tape recorder. Curious. Did he consider Jeff Rodgers’s death a bonus, given his mission?

Nifty assured the police lieutenant in charge that he had the names and addresses of all the guests present and the caterer stated that he had the same information for all his staff. This made it possible for all of us to leave as soon as the police had finished taking photos of the scene before and after the removal of Rodgers’s body. All present were advised that they could be called upon to give statements when and if the necessity arose.

Jackson Barnett complained that he had to be in Los Angeles tomorrow for makeup and costume tests. He was told not to leave town without first clearing his departure with headquarters. Lolly offered Jackie the comforts of Phil Meecham’s yacht should he have to spend another night in PB, and I think the pro accepted. Woe be to Jackie Barnett. After a night aboard Meecham’s floating Sodom and Gomorrah, Jackie would wish the police had locked him up.

I stayed to the bitter end, feeling it my duty to stand by our client and, of course, to report the situation back to my father.

“What do you make of this, Archy?” Nifty asked when we were in his drawing room, where he was taking comfort in a generous shot of Ballantine on the rocks. Mrs. MacNiff had retired to her room after ordering a cold compress and a cup of tea.

“The worst, sir. I think you should be prepared for a complete investigation based on suspicion of foul play.”

Malcolm MacNiff is tall and lean with a complexion that freckles in the sun, the only reminder of the redhead he was before going gray. His blue eyes opened wide at my candid pronouncement. “But surely you don’t think one of us is responsible for this accident?”

Us
being the Palm Beach fraternal order whose money was a safe three generations away from the sweat and tears that made it. This group clung to one another like ivy to the brick walls of their alma maters. To protect their turf and those who rule it, this crowd has been known to see no evil, hear no evil and, foremost, speak no evil. I’m not saying they would condone murder, though they might not condemn it either.

The late Jeffrey Rodgers was not a member of
us,
therefore he was one of
them.
To ease Nifty’s conscience on this dark day (it’s what I get paid to do), I told him the lad’s demise was probably the result of a feud between the young and reckless that got out of hand.

“But how could it happen before our very eyes?” he moaned.

I explained my theory to which he listened thoughtfully, nodding between sips of scotch. “It’s possible,” he said, not sounding completely convinced. “But those youngsters all seemed so upset over the boy’s death.”

“And the guilty party, I’m sure, cried the loudest.”

“Yes. Yes,” Nifty said. “I see what you mean.” With a shrug he continued, “Lolly asked me for a statement. I was too upset to give him one and said I would call him before he filed his story. Any suggestions, Archy?”

I have several stock quotes for clients in thorny situations and pulled up the one best suited for today’s misfortune.

“Mrs. MacNiff and I are deeply saddened by this terrible tragedy and extend our sympathies to Jeff’s family and friends. We will of course assist the family in any way we can in the difficult days ahead. Until the authorities can give us a more detailed explanation of what happened to the young man I’m afraid that is all I have to say at this time. I wish also to apologize to my guests and benefactors for the abrupt termination of my
Tennis Everyone!
fete and beg their understanding.”

Nifty nodded his approval, his blue eyes glassy with grief, fear or booze. “That’s splendid, Archy. Will you write it out for me? I’m afraid my memory is not what it used to be.”

He produced a pad and pen from the top drawer of a museum quality desk-on-frame. I wrote out the paragraph, which I was sure Lolly would recognize as having come from me and, before leaving, asked Nifty if he wanted to keep our lunch date tomorrow.

“Oh, I do, Archy. I most certainly do. That’s another matter that needs clearing up.”

Now, as I related this to father, he puffed on his cigar and repeated, “Another matter. How odd. So the lunch will have nothing to do with the boy’s death.”

“I didn’t think it would,” I answered. “He made the date with me before we knew Rodgers was dead, if only by a few minutes.”

“Do you truly believe one of the wait staff is responsible for this, Archy?”

With regrets I stubbed out my cigarette and answered, “I said that to take the edge off Mr. MacNiff’s trying day. At this juncture I believe the field is wide open. If my theory is correct, anyone there today could have done it.”

“Even one of
us?
Father said, echoing Malcolm MacNiff.

We of the McNally clan do not belong to the upper echelons of Palm Beach society, as our start came from my grandfather, Freddy McNally, a burlesque comic with the Minsky circuit who invested in Florida real estate at the low and got out at the high. Hence our house on Ocean Boulevard, though it would show flaws upon close inspection like a suspect diamond under a jeweler’s loupe. Witness our leaky roof: the drip, drip, drip of the raindrops happens to be located over my third-floor digs.

Father went to Yale, where he majored in law and denial, graduating with a bright future and a dim past. I do nothing to burst his bubble as a leaky roof is preferable to no roof. ’Nuff said?

“Palm Beach has had its share of society murders, sir,” I reminded the squire. As we spoke the town was agog over the exploits of a man with more money than sense who came to Palm Beach wanting desperately to join the
us
crowd but was encumbered by an inconvenient wife. Not to worry. It’s believed he hired a hit man to expedite a divorce and is now in parts unknown. True, it’s an extreme case of one who wanted to push his way into Palm Beach society, which is as rewarding as pushing a Sherman tank uphill.

“Do you think you’ll get involved in this, Archy? You were on the scene.”

“Not unless I’m asked, sir, and I don’t see who would hire me to investigate the matter. Certainly not Mr. MacNiff, who just wants the whole thing to go away. Besides, until the police make a statement we won’t know if we have a case of murder or misadventure.”

If it was murder, as I strongly suspected, I might presently be the only person who knew when it occurred. When I took that drink from Todd’s tray I glanced at my watch and both of Mickey’s hands were pointing at three. Todd said Rodgers had gone on his break a half hour before, so the boy headed for the pool about a quarter to three and was found dead at a quarter to four, giving you a window for the time of death between 2:45 and 3:45.

“Let’s hope for misadventure,” Father offered before turning to matters closer to his heart. “So you met the Talbot boy. What did you think of him?”

“Met
might be an exaggeration. We played the required three sets together and then exchanged a few words.” I didn’t mention Talbot’s comment on my interview in today’s paper because I didn’t know if Father had seen it. Nor did I know if the pater would approve.
Never trouble trouble till trouble troubles you
is one of my favorite edicts.

“He’s a handsome boy, about twenty I would guess,” I added. This had me thinking that he was about the same age as the late Jeffrey Rodgers, the two being as close in years as they were distant socially.

“I was hoping he might consider taking us on as his legal representatives,” Father said. “Malcolm was a good friend of the boy’s grandmother. In fact Malcolm was the executor of Mrs. Talbot’s will. As we represent Malcolm I thought young Talbot would follow suit.”

“I understand the boy carries his maternal grandmother’s name because he was born out of wedlock and his mother never said who done her wrong.”

Father tugged on his mustache. A sure sign of his displeasure. “So I’ve heard, but naturally that’s none of our business.”

Pushing the envelope, I ventured, “And they say he’s involved with a lady named Holga von Brecht who’s at least twenty years his senior. I met her, too, on the courts.”

Father gave his whiskers another yank. “That, too, is not our concern. What is, is the fact that Talbot has come into a fortune conservatively estimated at five hundred million.”

Half a billion. I didn’t whistle because that would be uncouth. No wonder Holga followed him here all the way from Switzerland. I assume she was Mrs. von Brecht. Or, more likely, the Baroness von Brecht. So where was the Baron? Perhaps sulking in the schloss with the drawbridge raised, but for a half billion in American currency Holga would have swam the moat.

I did not ask Father if he wanted me to put in a good word for the Talbot account over lunch with Nifty, as that would be
de trop.
As I did not go all the way at Yale (no pun intended, there was a little streaking incident), my sole function at McNally & Son is to assist those who come to me with problems they would rather not read about in the shiny sheet.

In case you don’t know, or don’t care, the shiny sheet is the sobriquet of our local daily that chronicles the
what, where, when
and the
who, how
and
why
of the denizens of our little island. The name comes from the paper on which it’s printed, which prevents madam from getting her hands soiled with printer’s ink as she keeps up with the Joneses and, of course, the price of alligator pumps on the Esplanade.

During my briefing of the afternoon’s events, I mentioned Dennis Darling and Father, puffing contentedly and perhaps dreaming of young Talbot’s patronage, asked me what I thought of the man.

“As with Talbot, sir, it was a brief encounter on the tennis court. Lolly told me the man is here to write on Palm Beach for his magazine,
Bare Facts.”
Father winced at the name and tossed back what was left of his port. I got up and refilled our glasses.

“Is he here to make trouble, Archy?”

“I hope not,” I answered, thinking of the man chatting into his portable recorder following the discovery of Jeff Rodgers’s body in the pool and the mayhem that followed. “He’ll dig up all the old scandals and drop all the names that he’ll never get to meet one-on-one. Lolly tells me the long knives are being sharpened for Mr. Darling.”

Dennis Darling wouldn’t be the first interloper to come to Palm Beach in search of caviar and leave with egg on his face. A few seasons back we had a television crew down here doing a documentary on the rich and famous of our resort. The only people who would go before the cameras were the new rich, who don’t matter to the old rich, while those who do matter were presented from newspaper photos, shots of their homes from outside locked gates and hearsay. I will admit that Dennis’s invitation to
Tennis Everyone!
was a coup but, as Lolly had said, money never fails to get its way.