McNally's Puzzle (26 page)

I had won a small victory but it was not enough. “No, father, I cannot promise that. Situations may arise similar to the present matter when I feel it best to make an instant decision before clearing it with you. Either you trust my judgment or you do not.”

He looked at me with what I can only describe as a sardonic smile. “The apple never falls far from the tree,” he observed.

And that inanity reminded me of an undergraduate jape I’ve mentioned before: The turd never falls far from the bird.

“I will not undo what you have done,” he pronounced in a frigid voice, turning to his desk. “Now go back to work.”

I
RETURNED TO MY OFFICE
in a mood I can only label as festive. I had climbed into the cage with the king of beasts and tamed him—temporarily at least. But then, on further reflection, my coup was moderated. I became conscious my relationship with my father had been subtly altered during our wrangle. It was not a sea change, mind you, but perhaps the beginning of one.

I was about to resume inventing my expense account when Binky Watrous phoned. He seemed joyous, bubbly in fact.

“Binky,” I said, “are you calling from Parrots Unlimited?”

“No, boss, I am not,” he said with a giggle. “I have been fired. Along with Bridget.”

I gulped. “When did this happen?”

“About an hour ago. Ricardo showed up, back from one of his business trips, and gave both of us the old heave-ho.”

“Did he offer any reason?”

“Said the business couldn’t afford a sales staff of four—which is a crock. The store is doing a booming business. I mean we weren’t just standing around. The place was always busy. In fact, Bridget and I are thinking of opening a bird store of our own. Not just parrots, you know, but all kinds of chirpy pets: canaries, mynahs, swans, penguins.”

“Swans?” I said, startled. “Penguins? Why not an ostrich or two?”

“Why not?” he said gaily.

“Listen, Binky, how about you and Bridget meeting me for lunch at the club. Around noonish. You can tell me all about your sacking and your plans for the future.”

“Ripping idea. We’ll celebrate our release from gainful employment.”

I hung up puzzled by this new development. It was apparent Ricardo was revamping Parrots Unlimited, as he had every right to do since he was now the manager and, after Mr. Gottschalk’s estate was settled, would be the sole owner. I just wondered what plans he had for the psittacine emporium. A discount store? Something like a feathered Kmart?

I finished my expense account and dropped it onto the desk of Raymond Gelding, our treasurer.

“Oh, goody,” he said. “Just what I wanted. I haven’t read any really exciting fiction lately.”

“To quote a former president of our great republic,” I said loftily, “I am not a crook.”

“And you know what happened to him,” Ray said. “But I must admit I admire your chutzpah, Archy. You are the only employee of McNally and Son who has ever attempted to charge the firm for a purchase of Extra-Strength Excedrin.”

“A legitimate business expense,” I assured him, turning to leave. “Headaches are an occupational hazard.”

“What about my ulcer?” he yelled after me.

I arrived at the Pelican Club at precisely the same moment Binky’s battered Mercedes came chugging into the parking area. He and Bridget alighted by sliding out the door on the driver’s side, the one closed with a loop of twine. The passenger’s door was so tightly jammed only a small explosive charge might have opened it—but I doubt it.

I greeted the kids and we all entered the club and went directly to the dining area. Priscilla came sauntering over to take our order. I asked for Kir Royales for the three of us.

Pris winked at Binky. “You’ve got a live one today,” she told him.

“I hope so,” he said. “Bridget and I have just been fired.”

“Some people have all the luck,” she sighed, and went off to fetch our drinks.

I asked Binky for more details of what had happened but there was little he could add to what he had already related. Ricardo Chrisling appeared an hour after the store opened, called Bridget and Binky into his private office, and canned both of them forthwith. He promised each two weeks’ severance and requested they leave immediately.

“What was his mood?” I inquired. “His manner?”

Bridget answered. What a charming young woman she was: saucy, energetic, with a brisk wit. She reminded me in many ways of Connie Garcia. You remember Connie, don’t you, McNally? Of course you remember, you poltroon!

“Ricardo was an icicle,” Bridget said decisively. “All business. Binky and I were just numbers in a ledger. And bad cess to him. He needed us more than we needed him.”

“Hear, hear,” Binky murmured.

“The new people,” I said. “What are their names... Martin and Felice? Yes. They know nothing about parrots?”

“They know,” she admitted. “But they treat the birds like products. A box of cornflakes. No warmth there, no sympathy. They had no favorites and sometimes they could be mean.”

“Plebs,” Binky added. “Definitely plebs.”

But then our drinks arrived and I raised my glass in a toast. “To your freedom,” I said.

They responded most heartily and I was happy to see they were not at all disheartened by their sudden termination. Relieved, as a matter of fact. I wondered if they envisioned a future on the Las Vegas stage as a duet featuring birdcalls with tambourine accompaniment.

If you’re interested in matters gustatory, and I presume you are, our lunch was a gargantuan seafood salad served in a wooden bowl large enough to hold a hippo’s hip. In addition to the greens, onions, black olives, bell peppers, mushrooms, and radishes, it contained shrimp, crabmeat, lobster, scallops, and a few chunks of pepperoni for the fun of it. Leroy had prepared a creamy lemon-and-dill dressing. Excellent. We had a chilled bottle of Sancerre. Also excellent.

As we gorged on this healthful repast, Bridget and Binky regaled me with the tale of an incident I found diverting and hope you will too even though it has little connection with the discreet inquiry inspiring this narrative.

It concerns a remarkable happening at a nursing home in Stuart where The Busy B’s were entertaining the residents. Binky was giving the coo of the mourning dove and Bridget was spanking her tambourine when an oldster lurched from his wheelchair, hobbled to the center of the floor, and began to perform an arthritic jig in time to the “music.”

His impromptu dance elicited such an enthusiastic response that Bridget and Binky determined to revise their repertoire and reproduce or suggest dance rhythms in their act. The results were startling they assured me. At subsequent nursing home performances they had geriatrics attempting jigs, clogs, waltzes, polkas, even a slow-motion Charleston.

You may think this activity by the elderly as exciting as group flossing but I find the idea of gaffers and gammers kicking up their heels invigorating. I trust when I am toothless and spavined I will have the spirit to essay a rumba.

During the remainder of the luncheon I queried my guests on the daily routines at Parrots Unlimited: who fed the birds, who was responsible for totaling the day’s receipts, how often inventory was taken, etc. Their answers revealed nothing of significance. Several days passed before I realized I hadn’t asked the right questions. This is a frequent failing of detectives and suspicious wives.

We finished, left the Pelican Club, and were standing in the parking area when I felt it necessary to warn them again.

“Please,” I said, “do be careful. Emma and Tony were fired and I know I needn’t remind you what happened to them. Now you have been sacked. Be extra-cautious.”

They assured me I had nothing to worry about; they were perfectly capable of ensuring their own safety.

“If any bullyboy attacks us,” Bridget said, “I’ll bounce my tambourine off his noggin.”

“And I shall befuddle him with the hoot of the barn owl,” Binky added.

We all laughed and I watched them depart, wondering about the derivation of the phrase “babes in the wood.”

I returned to my sepulcher at the McNally Building and found on my desk two messages reporting phone calls taken by our lobby receptionist. My first callback was to Sgt. Al Rogoff. He sounded desperate.

“Anything?” he asked.

“Nada,” I said. “Except Binky Watrous just got fired from Parrots Unlimited. There goes my mole.”

“A perfect mole. They’re blind, aren’t they?”

“Not completely but most of them wear bifocals.”

“Very funny. Did you get any skinny from Watrous?”

“Not much,” I admitted. “But I wanted someone inside. Now I’m stymied. You?”

“The same,” he said glumly. “In spades. The only news to report is Peter Gottschalk is back in the hospital.”

It wasn’t a great shock. I think I had expected it. “When did this happen?” I asked Rogoff.

“Early this morning. A call to nine-one-one. Too much booze, I guess. Not fatal but they’re keeping him under observation. What a saphead the lad is.”

“But not a killer.”

“I guess not,” the sergeant said. “But if not him, then who? Listen, Archy, you really think the Gottschalk homicide is connected to the blasting of those kids in the Everglades?”

“I do and thought you did too.”

“I did but now I’m beginning to wonder. Everything’s getting cold and we’re getting nowhere. You know how solution rates go down as time passes. Have you got anything you can throw me? A crumb?”

I paused a moment, wondering if it was worth a gamble. I decided it was, because if it proved out I would benefit and so would the sergeant.

“Want to take a chance, Al?”

“A chance? Right now I’ll listen to some Gypsy with a crystal ball. Sure I’ll take a chance.”

“You told me an eyewitness stated she saw Emma Gompertz and Tony Sutcliffe being hustled into a white car she couldn’t identify.”

“That’s right.”

“Show her a color photo of a white four-door Ford Explorer and ask her if it could be the vehicle involved.”

“Who owns a white four-door Ford Explorer?” he demanded.

“I’m not going to answer that; I don’t want to involve an individual who may be totally innocent. You wanted a crumb, I’m giving you one. Are you going to do it or not?”

“I’ll do it,” he said, not at all happy. “What choice have I got? There’s nothing else. But if this lays a big fat egg, you and I will pretend we never met. Okay?”

“Suits me,” I said, and hung up as surly as he.

I could empathize with the sergeant. He was a professional and I was merely a semipro but I shared his frustration. A devious criminal was outbraining us and I believe we both considered it a sneering attack on our investigative skills. Ego, ego, all is ego.

But when Al said, “There’s nothing else,” he wasn’t speaking for me. I did have a few minor scents I hadn’t mentioned to him because they were too vaporous.

Item: The hacking of McNally & Son’s computer after I had initiated an inquiry about parrots.

Item: A diamond choker worn by Yvonne Chrisling that might or might not be a gift from her stepson.

Item: What seemed to me a deliberate attempt by the Gottschalk twins to intoxicate their brother even though they were aware of his illness.

But what would be gained if I reported such ephemera to Rogoff? I knew his reaction would be: “So what?” He wanted facts, sworn testimony, hard evidence. He wanted to cut knots open with knife or scissors. I had the patience to untangle, picking endlessly. I really had no choice, did I?

My second caller had been Ricardo Chrisling phoning from Parrots Unlimited. The person who answered was abrupt, almost churlish, and I began to question the efficiency of the new staff. But when Ricardo came on the line he couldn’t have been more congenial. Señor Charm himself. A definite change from his previous distant manner.

“Sorry I missed you at the to-do last night,” he said breezily. “Had to go out of town on business. Good party, was it?”

“Very enjoyable,” I lied.

“Listen, Archy, I’ve been hoping to get together with you for some time now but I’ve been so busy since Hiram passed I haven’t had time to do what I
want
to do. I know this is short notice but could I treat you to dinner tonight? There’s a new Mexican restaurant on Dixie Highway. It’s called the Alcazar, which is a laugh because it’s really a hole-in-the-wall with no more than ten tables. But the food is something special. No tacos, enchiladas, or any other Tex-Mex garbage. This is classic Mexican cuisine and it’s really something. Also, they serve the best margaritas in Florida. How does that sound?”

“I’m salivating already.”

“Then you can meet me around seven?”

“Sure.”

“One drawback: I’ll have to cut and run by nine o’clock. Some friends are flying into Miami from South America and I want to be there to meet them. But we’ll have time for a nice leisurely dinner. Okay?”

“Of course.”

He gave me the address of the Alcazar and hung up before I had a chance to ask if I should wear a sombrero.

It was a strange invitation, was it not? Totally unexpected, and setting a time limit for “a nice leisurely dinner” seemed to me rather infra d.

This lad, I decided, had a strong penchant for things Hispanic. He had given me Mexican brandy, he was taking me to a Mexican restaurant, he was leaving early to meet friends flying in from South America. And suddenly I recalled Lolly Spindrift telling me Ricardo had been involved in an imbroglio at a local boîte. It had been a private party of
sudamericanos
. And there had been violence, someone had been shot. Now wasn’t that intriguing?

But how could I condemn Ricardo Chrisling for his friendship with Latinos? Was not Connie Garcia, a Marielito, my very own light-o’-love? Even though she seemed determined to turn off the light.

H
E WAS RIGHT; IT
WAS
a hole-in-the-wall and required a spot of searching. I finally located the Alcazar at the rear of a mini-mall. It appeared to be a narrow establishment with no advertising other than the name in hammered iron script over a weathered oak door. I was only a few moments late but Ricardo was waiting for me at a tiny stand-up bar to the right of the entrance. He shook my hand heartily, a totally unnecessary long-time-no-see grip.