McNally's Secret (13 page)

I was a short distance from home when I felt the first spatters of rain. I gave the Miata the automotive equivalent of giddyap and made it into our garage just before the deluge. Sgt. Al Rogoff’s pickup truck was parked outside on the gravel, and he lowered the window of the cab long enough to beckon me over.

I dashed through the rain and climbed in. It was air conditioned but rank with old cigar smoke.

“You don’t have to light up a fresh stogie,” I told him. “You can just drive around inhaling yesterday’s smoke.”

“Talking about cigars,” he said, “I spent all day at the Horowitz place, and that crazy dame wouldn’t let me flame a cigar anywhere. Not just in the house, she said, but nowhere on the grounds. She’s only got a hundred acres—right?”

“Maybe a little less.”

“Well, I couldn’t even go out in the woods and grab a puff. She’s a bird, that one.”

“A rich bird,” I said. “Is that why you’re wearing civvies and driving your own heap?”

“Yeah. She didn’t want any uniforms or police cars hanging around. I guess she thought it would lower the tone of the neighborhood. Where have you been?”

“Down in Delray Beach checking out Kenneth Bodin, the chauffeur.”

“Learn anything?” Al asked.

“Less than a soupçon,” I said. “He’s living with a cupcake, but if that’s a crime, half the guys in South Florida would be behind bars. No signs or talk of sudden wealth.”

“Heavy debts?”

“I can check that out through bank and credit agencies up here. How did you make out on the homicide?”

“Not too bad,” the sergeant said. “We’re lucky because the time of death can definitely be established within an hour or so. At that time the five members of the staff were all on the estate. I admit they alibi each other, which could be a conspiracy, but I doubt it. Lady Horowitz says she was at the hairdresser’s. I’ll have to check that out. As for the houseguests, the DuPeys claim they were partying on a docked yacht and were seen by dozens of people. Something else to check out. That leaves Mr. and Mrs. Smythe, Gina Stanescu, and Angus Wolfson. All four claim they left the yacht after the cruise was canceled and were wandering around the shops on Worth Avenue at the time Bela Rubik got pasted in the Great Stamp Album in the Sky. The actual whereabouts of those four at the time of death will be a migraine to pin down, but I guess it can be done with a lot of legwork.”

“You’re convinced that the homicide and the theft of the Inverted Jennies are connected?”

“The only reason I’m convinced,” Al said, “is that I’ve got nothing else. There’s no evidence at all pointing to an attempted robbery. Maybe it was a weirdo, a serial killer on the loose, but I don’t buy that. Those missing stamps and what Rubik said to you on the phone are the only leads I’ve got. Archy, what’s your guess—was it a man or a woman?”

I considered a moment. “I’d guess it was a man. Look, the human skull isn’t an eggshell, you know. You can give it a pretty sharp bop without breaking it. So there was physical power behind that paperweight.”

“It could have been a strong woman.”

“Could have been,” I agreed, “but bashing in a skull just doesn’t seem to me something a woman would do, even if she was insane with rage.”

“Yeah,” Rogoff said, “it doesn’t seem likely, does it? By the way, he didn’t die of a bashed skull.”

I stared at him. “Would you run that by me again.”

“Bela Rubik didn’t die from repeated blows to the cranium. According to the ME, they would have knocked him out for sure, and they damaged the brain, but he actually died of cardiac arrest, a massive heart failure brought on by the assault. That still makes it a homicide, of course.”

“Of course,” I said, “but it opens up a whole new can of worms. Maybe the attacker didn’t intend to kill him. Just knock him out or hurt him.”

“I’m not interested in the killer’s intent,” Al said. “That’s for the courts to decide. I just want to nab the perp and then let the lawyers argue about intent.”

“I’m not sure that’s the way to go,” I said slowly. “Perhaps knowing the intent is the only way to find the killer.”

The sergeant groaned. “You know, you have a taste for complexity. I’ll bet you like black olives, too.”

“Love ’em,” I admitted.

“It figures.” Al said mournfully. “All right, the rain’s letting up, you can run for the house without getting soaked. I have to get back to work. Keep in touch.”

“For sure,” I said. “I expect to be in all night. Give me a call if anything breaks.”

That evening my parents left to attend a dinner being given for a septuagenarian couple celebrating their 50th wedding anniversary. I was invited but begged off. Long hours of fruit punch and charades are not my idea of a hot time in the old town tonight.

So I had dinner in the kitchen with the Olsons. Ursi dished up a concoction she called McNally Stew: a spicy mix of chunks of beef, chicken, hot Italian sausage, and shrimp, all in a red wine sauce and served over a bed of wide noodles. Kiss your diet farewell.

After that gluttonous debauch I went upstairs, thankful I was wearing an expandable belt, and set to work on my journal, with the original cast album of
Guys and Dolls
playing on my stereo. I may even have sung along with “Sue Me.” This was after I phoned Jennifer Towley, got her answering machine, and hung up without leaving a message.

I was still scribbling when
my
phone rang. It was Sgt. Rogoff.

“Wake you up?” he asked.

“Come on, Al,” I said, “it’s not even ten o’clock. What’s up?”

“After I left you I hit the streets. First I went to the hairdresser where Lady Horowitz claims she had an appointment at the time Rubik was aced.”

“And?”

“She had an appointment all right, but she never showed up.”

I was silent.

“Hello?” Rogoff said. “You there?”

“I’m here,” I said. “Just trying to catch that curve ball.”

“Yeah,” he said. “It’s screwy, isn’t it? Listen, Archy, do me a favor, will you? I don’t want to brace that old dame with what I know and demand she spill the truth. She scares me; I admit it. She’s got a lot of clout in this town and could make things sticky for me if she wanted to. You follow?”

“I follow,” I said. “All right, Al, I’ll try to find out where she was at the time Rubik was killed. Did you tell her that the theft of her stamps was connected to a homicide?”

“Hell, no! I didn’t tell her or any of the others there was probably a link. I just said we had a good lead on the identity of the stamp thief, and I had to check out their whereabouts at a specific time to eliminate the innocent.”

“You think they bought that?”

“Everyone but the killer,” Al said. “Talk to the old biddy for me, will you, Archy? She likes you.”

“She does?” I said, somewhat surprised.

“Sure. She told me so herself. Something else you can do for me...”

I sighed. “And I get a piece of your salary—right?”

“Wrong. Your father drew up Lady Horowitz’s will, didn’t he?”

“That’s correct,” I said, knowing what was coming.

“Can you find out who inherits if she croaks?”

“Probably,” I said, “but I’m not going to tell you. That’s privileged information.”

“What do I have to do to get it?”

“Get her permission first. I’ll ask my father.”

“Do that, will you?”

“Sure. But why do you want to know who inherits?”

“Because maybe someone, family or friends, perhaps one of the house-guests,
doesn’t
inherit, knows it, and decided to pinch the stamps to get what they could. And that led to the homicide.”

“Sergeant Rogoff,” I said, “you’re brilliant.”

“It’s taken you this long to find out? What a lousy detective. Let me know what your father says.”

It was about ten-thirty when I heard the crunch of gravel, went to the window, and saw the Lexus pulling into the garage. I waited another half-hour, smoked my first cigarette of the day, and brooded about what Rogoff had told me. I wasn’t looking forward to telling Lady Cynthia she had been caught in a lie. She was quite capable of canning McNally
&
Son instanter.

The door of my father’s study was closed, but when I knocked I heard his murmured, “Come in.” He was plumped down in his club chair, still wearing his dinner jacket, but he had loosened tie and collar. I thought he looked old and tired.

“Good party?” I asked.

“Wearing,” he said with a wan smile. “You were wise not to attend. Not your cup of vodka at all.”

“Speaking of that, sir,” I said, “may I bring you a glass of port? You look a mite bushed.”

He stared a brief moment. “I think a tot of brandy would do more good. Thank you, Archy, and help yourself.”

I poured us small snifters of cognac from his crystal decanter and seated myself in an armchair facing him. We raised glasses to each other, took small sips.

“Sorry to bother you at this hour, father,” I said, “but Sergeant Rogoff just called and asked me to speak to you.”

I explained what Rogoff wanted and why he wanted it. The guv listened closely.

“I couldn’t possibly release that information,” he said, “without Lady Horowitz’s permission.”

“I told Al that. He wants you to try to get it.”

Long pause for heavy thought. Then: “I can understand Rogoff’s reasoning. It’s a nice point: A disinherited relative or friend might wish to profit immediately. You were right, Archy; the sergeant is a foxy man.”

“Yes, sir. Will you ask Lady Horowitz if details of her will may be given to the police? On a confidential basis, of course.”

He sighed wearily. “All right, I’ll ask.”

“Do you think she’ll agree?”

He looked at me with rueful amusement. “Who can possibly predict what that extraordinary woman might or might not do? I’ll ask her; that’s all I can tell you.”

“Good enough,” I said, finished my brandy, and rose. “Sorry to have disturbed you, sir.”

“Not at all,” he said.

I tramped upstairs, thinking he was not so much wearied as troubled. And seeing my father troubled was like viewing a statue of a worried Buddha.

I
HAD A LOT
of important things to do the next morning—such as dumping the contents of my wicker laundry hamper into a big canvas bag, adding four pairs of slacks to be dry cleaned, and lugging everything downstairs to be picked up by our laundry service. I also balanced my checkbook, which came out three dollars more than my bank statement. Close enough. And I called a florist to deliver an arrangement of whatever was fresh to Jennifer Towley.

So it was a bit past ten-thirty before I headed for the Horowitz empire. I knew quite well that all those putzy things I had busied myself with that morning were sheer cravenness on my part: an attempt to postpone the moment when I’d have to face Lady C. and ask, “Why did you lie to Sergeant Rogoff?” When Al told me she scared him, I could empathize; she scared me, too. She was a woman of strong opinions and fierce determination. And her millions gave muscle to her whims.

I found Lady Horowitz lying on a chaise at poolside. In the shade, of course. She was wearing a mint-green silk burnoose, the hood pulled up, and I soon learned she was in a scratchy mood.

“That policeman,” she said wrathfully, “that insufferable
cop,
positively
reeks
of cigar smoke.”

“I know,” I said, “but he—”

“And his idiotic questions!” she ranted on. “Why, he treated me like a common criminal.”

“He’s just trying to do his job,” I said as soothingly as I could. “He’s really on your side, you know. He’d like to recover the stamps as much as you would.”

“Cowpats!” she said. “He’s just trying to make my life miserable because I gave him work to do when he’d rather be somewhere else swilling beer and belching.”

“He’s really a very efficient police officer.”

She stared at me. “He’s a friend of yours, lad?” she demanded.

“We’ve worked together several times,” I acknowledged. “And successfully, I might add.”

But she’d have none of it. “That’s all I need,” she fumed, “two amateur sherlocks stumbling around on their flat feet. I suppose that’s why you’re here—to ask more questions.”

She hadn’t invited me to sit down, so I didn’t. But I moved into the shade of a beach umbrella and leaned on the back of a chair, looking down at her.

“Well, yes,” I admitted. “I’d just like to get a clarification of something you told Sergeant Rogoff.”

“A clarification?” she said suspiciously. “Of what?”

“The sergeant has a good lead on the identity of the thief, but needs to pin down the whereabouts of everyone involved at the time the crime was apparently committed. You told him you were at your hairdresser’s. But when Rogoff checked, he discovered you had an appointment but didn’t show up. Would you care to comment?”

“My first comment is that I’m going to get a new hairdresser,” she said. “The stupid snitch!”

“Please, Lady Horowitz,” I said, “where were you?”

“I’ve had a touch of arthritis in my knees, and didn’t want anyone to know I was going to an acupuncturist. That’s where I was.” She looked at me. “You’re not buying that, are you?”

“No,” I said.

“All right,” she said almost cheerfully, “let’s try this one: I was sitting in a dyke bar slugging Black Russians. No? How about this: It was such a lovely day I decided to drive the Jag up the coast to the country club. How does that grab you?”

I sighed. “I gather you’re not going to tell me where you were.”

“You gather correctly, lad. The whole thing is so moronic it’s sickening. Does Rogoff think I swiped my own stamps?”

“Of course not.”

“Then why in hell should I tell him where I was at such and such a time? My private life is my private life, and I don’t have to account for it to anyone. Period. That includes you, lad.”

I nodded. “Thank you for your time.”

She tried to smile but couldn’t. “You’re pissed at me, aren’t you?”

“Somewhat,” I admitted. “It seems to me you’re making Mount Everest out of a very small molehill indeed.”

“That’s what you think,” she said, and I looked at her with perplexity because she appeared to be stiff upperlipping it, and I couldn’t understand why. But then she waved me away with a gesture of dismissal, and I went.