McNally's Puzzle (13 page)

We went down to the strand and scouted three locations before Judith approved of a spot to spread my beach towel. I saw no difference in any of the places; sand is sand is sand. But that’s a characteristic of pooh-bahs and would-be pooh-bahs. Observe their behavior in a restaurant; they will
never
accept the first table offered by the maître d’.

Finally we were settled, I opened the bottle of champers, and we each had a cupful. At least she had the grace to murmur, “Very nice.” Then we went down to the sea, which proved a mite chilly but still held just enough summer warmth to be more invigorating than uncomfortable.

Judith was not a swimmer; that was obvious. She was more of a dunker, careful not to get her hair wet. She was also a bobber. You’ve seen them I’m sure. They stand in waist-high water and bob up and down, occasionally slapping their shoulders and upper arms vigorously.

I did nothing but get my knees wet while I watched Judith cavort. I was, I admit, a bit put out by her behavior and kept my distance. Not exactly Miss Congeniality, was she? She finally emerged from the briny and strigiled water from her torso and legs with her palms.

“That was divine,” she said.

I was happy she approved of the Atlantic Ocean.

She strolled ahead of me back to our spread. I studied her lilting walk in the minuscule bikini plastered to tanned and glistening hide. Poetry in motion? Yes indeedy. But whether it was a sonnet or a limerick I could not have said.

We drank more Korbel and she opened her beach bag to extract a package of rice cakes. She offered me one and I politely took a bite.

“Good?” she asked.

“Appetizing,” I responded, thinking it was about as tasty as I imagined a coprolite would be.

She lay on her back, stretched out like a gleaming starfish. She placed her hat over face and head. I lay propped on my side examining her attractive carcass with more than prurient interest. I found it: a small black mole, no larger than an aspirin tablet, nestled low on the left side of her flat abdomen. I restrained myself and didn’t shout, “Eureka!” or even, “Hoover!” But I believed I had solved one small equation: Mole equaled Judith.

“So, Archy,” she said, voice muffled by her hat, “what have you been up to?”

“This and that,” I said, and then revealed something I hoped might provoke a reaction. “I had a drink with Ricardo Chrisling last night.”

“Whatever for?” she said, disdain curdling her voice. “The man is a viper, definitely a viper.” Pause. Then: “I hope you won’t tell him I said so.”

“Not me,” I assured her. “Discretion is my stock-in-trade.”

She removed her hat and donned mirrored sunglasses to look at me. At least I think she was looking at me. With those specs it was hard to tell.

“Archy,” she said, “did you talk to your father? About what my sister and I told you—how crazy daddy has been acting lately.”

“I haven’t had a chance to inform him as yet,” I confessed. “But I fully intend to.”

“You absolutely must,” she said firmly. “We cannot let it go on and maybe get worse.”

That had an ominous tone but I made no reply. Shortly thereafter she announced she wished to leave, and so we did. A very perplexing few hours. I mean I really didn’t understand the reason for Judith’s unexpected visit. It may have been quite innocent; she merely yearned for a brief ocean dunk. I did not think so.

That night before retiring I was still puzzling over our short encounter. Two things gradually surfaced from the bowl of Grape Nuts I call my brain.

First: Judith had referred with obvious malevolence to Ricardo Chrisling as a viper. It would certainly suggest the twins were not joined with Ricardo in some adroit plot against Hiram Gottschalk. Coconspirators rarely malign each other, do they?

Second: Was it really Judith Gottschalk with whom I had spent a not very exciting afternoon? Judith with the abdominal mole. She had said Julia was home with the sniffles. But could I have been deluded and was it actually Julia I had watched bobbing in the sea? Julia with the mole.

It was a crossword puzzle with no clues.

I
MAY HAVE SET A
personal record for oversleeping on Monday morning. By the time my dreams of Rita Hayworth had evaporated and I awoke, it was nudging ten o’clock and I muttered a mild oath. I staggered to the window and peered out. A gummy day with a ponderous iron sky pressing down and all the palm fronds hanging limply. I seriously considered returning to Rita for another hour.

But there was work to be done, Western Civilization to be saved, and so I went through my usual morning routine, still somewhat somnolent. I was tugging on a lovat polo shirt that seemed distressingly snug, when my phone pealed. I glared at it, wondering what fool would call at such an outrageous hour. The fool was my father.

“Archy?” The tone was cold.

“Yes, sir,” I said, expecting he would demand to know why I had not yet appeared at my place of employment.

“Hiram Gottschalk was killed last night,” he said, speaking rapidly. “Sergeant Rogoff informed me a few moments ago. He says it is clearly a case of homicide. He will be contacting you later. I want you to tell him everything you know about our late client’s fear for his life and whatever you may have discovered in your discreet inquiry. Is that understood?”

“Yes, father,” I said faintly, and he hung up abruptly.

I just stood there, trembling. My drowsiness had vanished to be replaced by a sadness so intense I could scarcely endure it. And guilt of course. If I had worked harder, if I had moved faster, if... if... if... But I had failed and the man was dead.

I collapsed at my desk. I could not bring myself to make a journal note of my failure. Instead I read and reread the note I had scrawled to myself to set up a meeting with Hiram Gottschalk as soon as possible. I was about to destroy that punishing reminder but then propped it up against my rack of reference books. I wanted to view it continually. “Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord.”

“You better believe it,” I saith aloud.

I knew it would be useless to call Sgt. Rogoff. He was probably at the crime scene and would phone when he had completed the details of opening a homicide investigation. I could think of nothing I might do at the moment but mourn. I surrendered to that, had a tasteless breakfast, and drove slowly through a sticky morning to my cubicle in the McNally Building on Royal Palm Way.

I wondered, not for the first time, if I was temperamentally suited for my chosen profession. Perhaps I should open a small haberdashery or seek employment as a waiter in a restaurant with enough chic to offer Grand Marnier soufflé. “Hello! My name is Archy and I shall be your serving person this evening.” Any job would do in which violent death was not routine. I am essentially a peaceable chap with, I admit, a dollop of timidity.

I smoked much too much that morning, remembering Mr. Hiram Gottschalk, recalling our brief conversations, and realizing how much I liked him, really
liked
him. He was capricious, no doubt about it, but there was no malice in him and whatever his sins I did not believe they deserved murder. I hoped Sgt. Rogoff would phone and suggest we get together to exchange information. But my only call came from Binky Watrous, who sounded as shaky as I felt.

“Archy,” he said, almost wailing, “did you hear what happened?”

“Yes, I heard.”

“It’s terrible,” he lamented. “Just terrible. He was a
nice
man, Archy.”

“I know. Where are you calling from, Binky?”

“The store. We’re closed for business of course. But we’re all here. The birds have to be fed and the cages cleaned. But it’s all so sad. The girls are crying. I feel like joining them. Do you ever cry, Archy?”

“Only at weddings.”

“Listen, Ricardo called and told us to close up early. I guess he’s in command now. So we’re going to lock up and go out to lunch together. Do you want to come along?”

“Thank you, no, Binky. I’m waiting for a phone call.”

“Archy, when you told me to get a job at Parrots Unlimited you said it was part of a discreet inquiry. Does Hiram’s murder have anything to do with it?”

“Possibly,” I said cautiously. “I won’t know until I learn more about what happened.”

“Then you’ll tell me, won’t you? I mean I am your lackey, cleaning out cages and all that, so I have a right to know.”

“Of course you do,” I agreed. “And so you shall. Now get off the line like a good lad and maybe the call I’m awaiting will come through.”

He hung up but my phone didn’t ring again that morning. I packed it in around one o’clock and went home for lunch. I was in no mood for the conviviality of the Pelican Club. It seemed to me indecent to seek companionship as a quick fix for my melancholia.
Mirabile dictu
, I found a cure on the grounds of the McNally duchy.

I dismounted from the Miata and heard the fast scrabble of claws on gravel. I turned to look and Hobo came racing around the corner of the garage. He skidded to a halt in front of me, panting, and jumped up to put paws on my knees. He seemed happy and he made me happy. What did he know of failure and murder most foul? He was just glad to see me and I blessed him, leaning to stroke his ears and scratch his hindquarters, which made him squirm with delight.

“Hobo,” I told him, “you are a canine Samaritan and I thank you.”

Jamie Olson came ambling up, gripping his old briar. His creased features wrinkled even more as he gave me a gap-toothed grin.

“That’s some beast,” he said.

I looked at him. “Don’t tell me Hobo found the raccoon.”

“Yep.”

“Tree him?”

“Nope. Didn’t give him a chance. Tell you what, that hound is swift. Set out after the critter. You should have heard Hobo snarl. Scared the daylights out of Mr. Raccoon. He went skedaddling south with Hobo right behind him. I finally whistled the dog back and he came. But I figure that raccoon is in Broward County by now and still running flat out.”

I gave Hobo an extra helping of pats. “Well done, sir,” I told him. “Keep up the good work.”

I went into the house, my sunken spirits somewhat elevated by the tale of Hobo’s hunting prowess. Ursi was working in the kitchen and offered to prepare a lunch but I respectfully declined. My appetite was blunted—a
very
rare occurrence, I assure you, and indicative of how deeply I had been affected by the news of Hiram Gottschalk’s murder.

Up in my hidey-hole I reviewed all the notes I had made on what I was now fancifully terming the Puzzle of the Patricidal Parrot. I chose the adjective because I was convinced the birdman had been topped by a close relative. But a desperate search of my journal revealed nothing of significance. Just bits and pieces, dribs and drabs.

I existed in a mindless stupor for a half hour or so. I was thinking but it was a chaotic process, skipping from this to that: Ricardo Chrisling’s taste in interior decor to Judith Gottschalk’s mole, Peter Gottschalk’s irrationality to Yvonne Chrisling’s dictatorial manner. I mean the McNally cerebrum was in a tizzy with a surfeit of stimuli, whirling like a bloody carousel with the brass ring continually out of reach.

I was saved from total mental collapse by a phone call, finally, from Sgt. Al Rogoff. He was obviously in no mood for idle chatter.

“You going to be home for a while?” he demanded.

“The rest of the day as far as I know.”

“Suppose I come over now. Okay?”

“Sure. Hungry?”

“I could use a sandwich and a beer.”

“You’ve got it,” I said. “How does it look, Al?”

“The Gottschalk kill? Pretty it ain’t. See you soon.”

I went down to the kitchen. Ursi had finished her chores and was gone; I played the short-order chef. I made Al two sandwiches, both with luncheon meat: sliced chicken breast with tomato and mayo, and salami with pickle relish. Even preparing this sumptuous repast didn’t perk my appetite and I feared I might never wish to eat again. That put me in a better mood; absurdity always does.

Al pulled up outside in his pickup truck. It’s not that he couldn’t commandeer an official squad car but he has a nice sensibility about how Palm Beach residents feel about having a police vehicle parked in their driveway. Neighbors ask questions or gossip. I couldn’t care less, of course, but I appreciated his discretion.

He came lumbering into the kitchen, took off his sagging gun belt, and slumped at the table. He looked more weary than grim and we did nothing but nod to each other. I popped two cans of chilled Coors and gave him one with the sandwiches. I gripped the other as I took a chair facing him.

“Rough morning?” I said.

“Not a barrel of laughs,” he said. “Thanks for the feed. You make these sandwiches?”

“I washed my hands first.”

“I hope so. Your father says Gottschalk thought someone was after him. Right?”

“Correct.”

“Why didn’t he come to us?”

“Come on, Al,” I said. “Get real. He had received no threatening letters or phone calls. Would you have done anything?”

He picked up the chicken sandwich. “You’re right,” he admitted. “Until he got snuffed. Now we got to do something. Did you believe him?”

I flipped a palm back and forth. “Maybe yes, maybe no. Here’s why he was spooked...”

I related what Hiram had told me: the slashed photograph, mass card, dead mynah, shattered phonograph record. Al listened closely while chomping through his first sandwich and picking up the second. I brought him another beer.

“You think he was telling you the truth?” he asked.

“I thought so at first,” I replied. “What reason would he have to lie? But then I began talking to his children and employees, and they told me he’d been losing his marbles, had delusions of persecution. They implied senility.”

Rogoff stopped scarfing and drinking to stare at me. “Did you ask them if he had been acting nutty, or did they volunteer the information?”

“They volunteered,” I said. “They may have been right.”

“Do you believe that?”

“No,” I said.

“Me neither,” he agreed, and started on his salami sandwich and second beer.

“I think they were trying to convince me Hiram was non compos mentis,” I said. “They wanted me to tell my father his client’s judgment was not to be trusted.”