McNally's Folly (16 page)

Did the spy have to be in these places to learn the facts? The way Lady C and Desdemona gossiped, they could have told almost anyone that they intended to ask me to direct this year’s showcase and the someone could have passed it on to Ouspenskaya. Ditto my lunch with Hanna. Had she discussed our meeting with a friend over a pitcher of “lemonade,” complaining bitterly of her stepson’s behavior?

That left Holmes. He had been recommended to Discreet Inquiries by Bob Simmons. How much had Holmes confided in Simmons? And Simmons’s son, Kenneth, was just about William Ventura’s age. Could they be chums? They could. If Simmons blabbed to his son and wife, they may have passed the word along to a number of people in what I believe is called arithmetic progression, the final number being the entire population of Palm Beach. On this tight little island everyone’s path crosses sooner or later.

What proof was there, other than his word, that William Ventura was in England when the diamond clip went missing? And could the boy’s animosity toward Ouspenskaya be a ruse? William Ventura might just be the most talented actor in our company.

The possibilities were endless and my efforts fruitless. It was time to check once more with Al Rogoff and see if the long arm of the law had managed to penetrate the hereafter.

I put out the light and went to bed thinking of Kate Mulligan. I shouldn’t see her again but I knew I would. Or, I should at least wait until the mater and pater were on the high seas before doing so—but I knew I wouldn’t. I doubted that our love was here to stay, as the Messrs. Gershwins proclaimed in song, but I wasn’t ready to write us off as a one-night stand. In spite of Kate’s protestations that she was not on the rebound from her failed marriage, I felt our passion was an effort on her part to banish sad memories. I hoped I had not disappointed.

From a more practical point of view, I rationalized that Kate could teach me a few tricks of the magician’s trade, thereby facilitating my dealings with Serge Ouspenskaya. In conclusion, my motives in courting the lady were not purely prurient—which is even harder to pronounce than believe. I have often promised myself to one day draw up a blueprint of my moral code; then, perhaps, I might know why I do what I do. Until then, I will just have to keep on doing whatever it is I do.

Sleep came so quickly I didn’t even have time to stroke my cheek.

I breakfasted with my parents, like a good boy should. Father departed for the office in his Lexus and Mother hurried off to the greenhouse to greet her begonias and await Kate Mulligan. I drove my Miata to the McNally Building, parked in our underground garage and used the phone in Herb’s security booth to call a cab. I had the driver take me to a car rental agency in West Palm and drove out in a black Ford Escort GT, my usual choice for covert trailing or, in this case, surveillance.

I had told Richard Holmes that I was keeping an eye on Ouspenskaya’s headquarters and now, after the fact, I was going to do just that—for whatever it was worth. The Clematis Street building was a four-story affair, white brick, glass entrance door and windows displaying identical white, horizontal blinds, all of them tightly closed to Florida’s warm winter sun. I found a convenient parking space almost directly across the street from the building, pulled into it and waited. Then I noticed the yellow VW parked not fifty feet from the building.

If a red Miata was akin to a flashing neon sign, so was a yellow VW. While I was certain mine was the only red Miata in the Palm Beach area, I couldn’t say the same for Kate’s wheels. The new edition of VW Bug was proving to be as popular as its predecessor. I was so mesmerized by the possibility of its being Kate’s car I almost missed seeing the creamy cocoa-colored Rolls that came to a halt directly in front of the glass entrance. A uniformed chauffeur jumped out and opened the rear door for Penny Tremaine. Looking very smart in a white suit with matching shoes and a wide-brimmed bonnet, she spoke a few words to her driver before entering the building. He got back into the Rolls and drove off. It was going to be a long session. Was she still trying to contact her father or was she putting out a contract for poor Fitz?

A few minutes later a cab deposited two women on Ouspenskaya’s doorstep. One of them was Hanna Ventura and the other a woman I had seen last night at Desdemona Darling’s cocktail party, but whose name escaped me, if I ever knew it. The cab drove off minutes before another chauffeur-driven Lincoln arrived, bearing two Palm Beach society matrons. The ladies who lunch were hell-bent on making Serge Ouspenskaya a rich man.

I waited another five minutes and decided no one else was expected to attend today’s broadcast. I was curious to see who owned the VW but not curious enough to set up housekeeping in a rented Ford Escort. Like the rest of my investigation to date, my surveillance proved a flop. But in the detective business persistence is the name of the game. I turned the key in the Ford’s ignition and just as I did so the glass door across the street opened and Kate Mulligan emerged. She was dressed in her gardening clothes, denim skirt and Topsiders, so I knew where she was headed once she got into the VW and drove off. This was an interesting turn of events, to say the least.

I slumped down in my seat as Kate drove past me and then got out of the Ford and marched up to the glass door. Entering, I was in an air-conditioned lobby of imitation marble and confronted with another glass door. An ebony plastic placard mounted on a chrome stand displayed the names of the building’s occupants and their location in shiny white letters.

1. Interior Designs by Beaumont

2. Xavier Santiago, Accountant

3. Temporarily Yours

4. Serge Ouspenskaya

Coincidence? What else? Unable to resist, I entered through the second door, pressed for the elevator and rode up to the third floor. The elevator door opened directly onto the reception area of Temporarily Yours. A woman who looked the prototype for a caricature of a schoolteacher, circa 1932, was seated behind a desk flanking the elevator. She had gray hair with a no-nonsense cut, wore rimless glasses, and sported a white blouse under a cardigan sweater. I couldn’t see her feet but I imagined she was shod in brown lace-ups with a college heel. The sweater told me she was the office grouch who went around turning down the air conditioner when no one was looking.

“May I help you?”

“Please,” I responded. “A friend recommended you and I was in the neighborhood and thought I would stop in. Is that all right?”

“Of course, sir. How can we be of assistance?”

“My wife took a fall the other day and broke her leg.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that, Mr. ...”

“Mark, ma’am. Tobias Mark.”

“I’m so sorry to hear that, Mr. Mark. I’m Sally Duhane.”

“Thank you, Ms. Duhane. She’ll need some help in running the house for the next four weeks. That’s how long it will be before the cast comes off.”

“I understand,” the woman replied.

“Nothing very special,” I said. “Just someone to help with housework and shopping. I can handle the rest.”

“I’m sure we can help, Mr. Mark.” Her tone and manner were as reassuring as a school nurse administering TLC to a first grader with a scraped knee. She selected an application from a twin pile on her neat desk and offered it to me. “If you’ll just have a seat and fill this out for us, one of our placement people will be with you as soon as you’re done.”

There were a half dozen student chairs in the room, each with a ballpoint pen resting on its broad arm.

“How long have you been here?” I asked her, taking the application.

“The agency has been in West Palm for a dozen years or more. We took it over last fall, moving to this more modern location and changing the name to Temporarily Yours. Catchy, isn’t it? We’ve also managed to recruit some very skilled personnel.

“You see, Mr. Mark, we advertise in newspapers as far north as New York and as far west as California, attracting people who want to relocate to the Palm Beach area, even if it’s just for the season when we’re busiest.” Her smile displayed a set of teeth that were as perfect, and perhaps as phony, as her demeanor. Did Kate Mulligan spot their ad in Las Vegas and head east in search of a new life—and a new husband?

Her editorial “we” could mean she was the establishment’s owner, a partner or just a gung-ho employee.

I took a chair and pretended to examine the sheet of paper she had handed me. Minutes later the door leading to what must be the interview rooms opened and a young man entered and exchanged a few words with the receptionist before retreating. This was obviously a perfectly legitimate business operation and I was beginning to feel a little foolish for having snooped.

Getting up, I asked Ms. Duhane if I could take the application home. “My wife is better qualified to describe exactly what we need.”

“Certainly, Mr. Mark. You can return it yourself or put it in the mail.” She gave me a business card along with an envelope for the application.

I returned the Ford and took a cab back to the McNally Building. I called Al Rogoff but he wasn’t at the station house. I left word for him to call me, giving my office number.

Then I called Connie to see if there was any fallout from last night’s party.

“I was just going to call you,” Connie said. “Madame is giving a reception for the community theater tomorrow night at eight. Come as you are, buffet dinner.”

I knew it wouldn’t take Lady C long to go DeeDee one better. “What did she have to say about last night’s imbroglio?”

“She’s furious at Desdemona for getting drunk but from what’s being said I think our leading lady has been on a twelve-step program for years but can’t seem to get past the first rise.”

Just as I had feared. “Anything else, Connie?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact. Lady Cynthia is also furious with Richard Holmes for punching out Ouspenskaya.”

“He didn’t punch him out,” I countered, “he gave him a little shove.”

“A little shove goes a long way in this town, Archy. Madame wanted Mr. Holmes to apologize to Ouspenskaya. Mr. Holmes told Madame what she could go do to herself and Madame said she would if she could. Then Desdemona threatened to quit the show unless Madame apologized to Mr. Holmes.”

“And on top of all this Lady C is organizing a reception for tomorrow night? It’s madness,” I told Connie.

“Lady Cynthia thrives on it, Archy. It’s the quiet days that wear her out.”

“So what was the end result of all the verbal abuse?”

“The Holmeses came here, Madame mixed a batch of the hair-of-the-dog and the ladies fell into each other’s arms and cried. Then they began planning the party.”

“You work in an asylum, Connie, and the inmates are calling the shots.”

“I know, but it pays well and until Prince Charming comes along and takes me away from all this, I have no choice. Which reminds me. I can’t see you tonight, Archy. I’ll be working late, preparing for the party.”

This was fortuitous because I had no intention of seeing Connie that night. But, cad that I am, I immediately took advantage of her candor. “Oh,” I sighed, “the weather has been so nice I was going to suggest a picnic on the beach and a midnight plunge, in our birthday suits.”

“The last time we did that, Archy, a crab nipped you right on your...”

“I know where the crab nipped me,” I cut in before we were given an X rating by our local telephone exchange. Needless to say that cheeky crustacean also nipped any impure thoughts I may have harbored that moonlit night and for weeks thereafter I gorged myself on crab cocktails, crab cakes and linguine with red crab sauce, hoping to even the score.

“I thought it was Binky’s job to alert the company as to where to be and when.”

“He’s incommunicado at the pound, or whatever it is, and I figured I may as well make a start and give Binky any leftovers this evening if he gets home in time. He’s picking up the scripts in Miami. By the way, Archy, the press was invited, too, and Lady C will formally announce the show and its cast and crew. I’ll get my name in the paper and so will Pris.”

“Did you mention Priscilla Pettibone to Lady C?”

“But of course. She loves the idea of having a resident makeup artist. It makes us look very professional.”

With that, Connie rang off, only to have Al Rogoff take up the slack.

“Hi, Al. Where have you been?”

“Out protecting your butt from the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. What’s up?”

“You’ve been reading
Hamlet.
How quaint.”

“I think he should have abdicated and married the woman he loved.”

“That would make it soap opera, Al.”

“So what’s wrong with the soaps? You’re a snob, Archy.”

“And you’re an intellectual posing as a policeman. What’s the word on my friend, Serge Ouspenskaya?”

“Neat as a pin an’ clean as a whistle.”

“That’s not what I want to hear, Al.”

“I don’t make up stories, pal. The guy blew into town last November and rented space on Clematis Street. It ain’t cheap: He’s licensed and bonded like the law requires and we ain’t had no complaints about him.”

Al’s intellectual pursuits did not include a crash course in remedial grammar. If slaughtering the King’s English were a crime, Al Rogoff would draw fifty to life with Johnnie Cochran defending him. “Do you know where he came from, Al?”

“Last known address, the City of Angels. Ain’t that a misnomer? He put down two months’ security on the office space and furnished references.”

“Who supplied them?”

“Archy, the guy is legit. We got no cause to probe more than I already have.”

“Sorry, Al. Did you happen to get his home address?”

“He has a rental in Lantana. Nothing too impressive. He lives with a woman and a young man.”

“Wife and son?”

“Who knows? Who cares? I didn’t see a marriage license or a birth certificate. Ask him.”

“Thanks, Al. I’ll send you a recording of
Swan Lake
by the New York Philharmonic.”

“No, Archy. It’s by Tchaikovsky.”

“Now you’re a comedian. See you when I see you, Al.”

“One more thing, Archy.”