McNally's Secret (24 page)

“Thank you,” she said. “I appreciate your solicitude. May we go now?”

I attempted to relieve her of that huge bag she was schlepping but she would not relinquish it. So we marched out to the Escort. She made no comment on the heat, which was a welcome surprise. Usually, arriving visitors say, “Oof!”

As we drove eastward she looked about with interest. “Is this Palm Beach?”

“West Palm Beach, ma’am.”

“Oh? Tell me something about the geography of this region.”

“We are in Palm Beach County. This is the City of West Palm Beach on the mainland. We are going to the island of Palm Beach, which is separated from the United States by Lake Worth, crossed by bridges. There is also North Palm Beach and South Palm Beach.”

“But no East Palm Beach?”

“No, ma’am. Only the Atlantic Ocean.”

“And what is the population of Palm Beach?”

“At this time of year, the off-season? About fifteen thousand.”

“And during the season?”

“Zillions,” I said, and she laughed for the first time, a nice, throaty sound.

We didn’t speak again until we arrived at The Breakers, that glorious remembrance of things past. I left the car with the parking valet and accompanied Miss Wolfson to the desk, where she registered.

“Ma’am,” I said, “would you care for lunch before I drive you to make arrangements?”

“Thank you,” she said, “but I had breakfast on the plane.”

“Surely not very satisfying,” I commented.

She looked at me as if I were demented. “Naturally I brought my own food,” she said. “Yogurt, a cucumber sandwich, and herbal tea which the attendant was kind enough to heat for me. What I would enjoy, after I freshen up, is a glass of sherry.”

“Of course,” I said. “Suppose you meet me at the Alcazar Lounge. Any of the hotel employees will be happy to direct you there.”

“I shan’t be long,” she said and left, still lugging that huge satchel, which she refused to yield to the bellhop.

I headed for the Alcazar and took a seat at the bar. I ordered a vodka-tonic with lime from a comely barmaid who provided a bowl of salted nuts to keep my thirst at a fever pitch. I had scarcely finished half my drink when Miss Wolfson appeared. I hopped from the barstool and asked if she’d care to sit at a table.

“No, this is fine,” she said and swung aboard the stool next to mine with a practiced movement that made me think barstools were not an unfamiliar perch.

She ordered a glass of Harvey’s Bristol Cream, took a small sip when it was served, and nodded approvingly. She gazed out the picture windows at the sea but said nothing about the beauty of the scene. After all, she was from Boston and had seen the Atlantic Ocean before—but not framed in palm trees.

“Miss Wolfson,” I said, “are your accommodations satisfactory?”

“Perfectly,” she said, then turned to gaze at me. “The flowers are lovely. Were they your idea?”

I nodded.

“You are a very
nice
young man,” she said, and took another sip of sherry.

“Thank you,” I said, happy this proper Bostonian didn’t think me a rube. “Ma’am, I’d like to ask you a question about your brother, but if speaking of him will distress you, I’ll say nothing more.”

“It won’t distress me, I assure you. You knew Angus?”

“Briefly. I found much to admire in him.”

She gave me a look of wry amusement. “And much
not
to admire, I’m sure. My brother was a difficult man to know, Mr. McNally. He would be the last to deny it. What did you wish to ask?”

“Was he ill?”

“Mortally. A year ago he was operated on for prostatic cancer. They were unable to remove the entire malignancy because of possible damage to other organs. But the doctors felt that with radiation and chemotherapy his life could be extended. But Angus refused treatment.”

I was aghast. “Why on earth did he do that?”

“He said it would be undignified. He said he had enjoyed a good life, and it would be humiliating to attempt to prolong it for a few miserable years by intrusive medical means. He was told that without treatment he would probably be dead within a year. He accepted that.”

I finished my drink in two gulps and ordered another, and a second sherry for Miss Wolfson. She made no demur.

“Yes,” I said, “that sounds like him. He was a brave man.”

“Was he?” his sister said. “Possibly. He was certainly a foolish man because he had discounted the pain, although the doctors had warned him. The pain became fierce. Drugs lost their effectiveness until I believe he was constantly in agony.”

“It must have been difficult for you,” I offered.

She made the tiniest of shrugs. “I nursed both parents through lingering illnesses. I have become inured to suffering.”

I didn’t believe her for a minute. Here was a woman, I thought, hanging on to sanity with a slippery grasp. And perhaps a bottle of sherry.

“So his suicide really didn’t come as a shock?” I asked.

“Not at all,” she said, and now she was sipping her wine at a faster pace. “I was surprised it hadn’t come sooner. He spoke of it frequently. I didn’t attempt to dissuade him. He would have considered it effrontery on my part. As he said, who can feel another’s pain?”

“Who indeed,” I said. “Miss Wolfson, I think we better finish up and be on our way. I took the liberty of telling the authorities we’d meet them at about two o’clock.”

“Of course,” she said, draining her glass. “Mustn’t be late for a funeral. Correct, young man?”

She was absolutely steady on her feet, her speech was still crisp and well-articulated, she gave no evidence whatsoever of having downed two glasses of sherry in a short time. We drove to police headquarters slowly while I pointed out places of interest and she asked lucid and intelligent questions. I hoped that when I was her age I might hold my schnapps as well as she did her wine.

“By the way,” I mentioned as casually as I could, “Lady Horowitz has volunteered to pay the expenses of your trip to Palm Beach as well as all funeral costs.”

I saw her expression change ever so slightly, and I had the feeling this news had come as a great relief. But the only words she uttered were a murmured, “Dreadful woman.”

Sgt. Rogoff was not there to greet us, but we were met by a policewoman I knew, Tweeny Alvarez. (That really was her name.) Like Consuela Garcia, she was a Marielito, but about ten years older and fifty pounds heavier than Connie. Al couldn’t have picked a better woman to assist Roberta Wolfson, for Tweeny was soft-spoken and
muy simpática.

“You’re in good hands,” I assured Miss Wolfson. “We call Officer Alvarez ‘Mother Tweeny.’”

“Oh you!” the policewoman said.

“I’m going back to my office now,” I said. “Please call when you’re ready to return to the hotel or if you need transportation elsewhere. I’m at your service.”

“You’re very kind,” Miss Wolfson said faintly.

To tell you the truth, I was relieved to be absent while she viewed the remains and made arrangements for her brother to be cremated. This line of duty was not my cup of tea at all. I shine at games of darts and an occasional chugalug contest. But funeral stuff is not exactly a bowl of cherries, is it?

When I arrived back at my office, I found a note taped to my telephone handset. Printed on the top was the legend:
From the desk of Evelyn Sharif.
Notepaper like that sends me right up the wall. I mean, desks can’t communicate. People, not furniture, write notes. I once contemplated having a notepad printed up that read:
From the bed of Archy McNally.
I didn’t do it, of course. The senior would have taken a very dim view.

But the message itself raised my spirits. It stated: “Got an answer to your inquiry. Stop by. Evelyn.”

I clattered down the back stairwell to the real estate department where I found Mrs. Sharif performing some sort of esoteric exercise.

“It strengthens the abdominal muscles,” she informed me.

“Keep it up,” I said, “and you’re liable to drop the twins on your fax machine. What did you find out about that property down at Manalapan?”

“Interesting story,” she said. She moved behind her desk and began flipping through a sheaf of notes. “A retired couple came down from Michigan in the late fifties. They had plenty of loot. He had made a fortune manufacturing portable johns, those white closets you see at construction sites. They bought the raw land between the ocean and the lake and had a house built. They called it Hillcrest.”

“Love it,” I said. “There isn’t a hill worth the name within five hundred miles.”

“Well, that’s what they called it,” Evelyn went on. “The man died in the seventies, and the widow died about three years ago. They had two grown children who inherited a bundle. But the house and acreage were left to the woman’s alma mater, a small college in Ohio. The children are contesting the bequest. They want that house as a place to vacation with
their
children. So the whole question of ownership has been tied up in litigation for almost three years, and since no one was living there, the place went to rack and ruin. But about a year ago, all the litigants agreed that until the court case is decided, the house could be rented on a month-to-month basis. And that’s the way things stand now.”

“What’s the monthly rental?” I asked.

“Five thousand.”

“Cheap enough for that location,” I said, “even though the place looks like a slum. Who’s renting it now—did you find out?”

She consulted her notes again. “A single woman,” she reported. “Clara Bodkin. Does the name mean anything to you?”

“Negative,” I lied smoothly. “Never heard it before. Thank you, Evelyn; you did your usual bang-up job.”

“Be sure and tell daddy,” she said, only half-joking.

“I will,” I promised.

I didn’t laugh until I returned to my office. Clara Bodkin indeed! Lady Cynthia’s maid could no more afford five thousand a month than I could. It seemed obvious to me that Horowitz herself had rented the empty house under her maid’s name. A silly deception—but then she hadn’t expected a Nosy Parker like me to come sniffing around.

It was at least ninety minutes before Roberta Wolfson phoned. I spent the time recalling everything she had told me of her brother’s illness and mental state. I came to the regretful conclusion that I had been wrong and Al Rogoff right. Angus Wolfson did take that determined hike into the sea voluntarily. And, under the circumstances, it was difficult to blame him. People usually say of suicides, “He (or she) had so much to live for.” That could hardly be said of Angus Wolfson.

After his sister phoned, I drove back to police headquarters. But this time, knowing the lady’s temperament, I took the Miata. Miss Wolfson was waiting for me on the sidewalk and looked at my racing sloop with some amazement.

“Do you own two cars, Mr. McNally?” she asked.

“No, ma’am,” I said, “the black Escort is a company car. This one is mine.”

“Very nice,” she said, and slid into the bucket seat with no trouble. She was an agile spinster.

On the trip back to The Breakers, I said, “I hope things went as well as could be expected.”

“Oh yes,” she replied. “Everyone was most cooperative. And you were quite right about Officer Alvarez. That woman is a treasure. She insisted on driving me to a funeral home. In a police car—can you imagine!” Unexpectedly she laughed. “I must tell my friends in Boston that I arrived at a mortuary in a police car! They’ll be much amused.”

“Yes,” I said.

“In any event,” she continued, “everything has been settled. Angus will be cremated tonight, and his ashes will be delivered to me at the hotel tomorrow.”

She said this as matter-of-factly as if she was expecting a package from Saks. It has been my experience that women are much more capable of coping with illness and death than men. But I must say Roberta Wolfson’s attitude approached a sangfroid I found somewhat off-putting.

We pulled up in front of the hotel.

“Ma’am,” I said, “would you care to have dinner with me this evening?”

“Oh no,” she said. “Thank you but no. It’s been a long, tiring day, and I believe I shall have dinner brought to my suite, write a few letters, and then go to bed.”

“As you wish,” I said. “Suppose I come by at one o’clock tomorrow to drive you to the airport.”

“One o’clock?” she said. “But my plane leaves at two.”

“An hour will be plenty of time to get to the airport.”

“I prefer to leave nothing to chance,” she said severely. “I suggest we leave at noon.”

“All right,” I agreed. “No problem. I’ll be here at noon.”

She put a soft hand on my arm. “I do appreciate all you’re doing for me, young man.”

“I’m happy to be of help. Sleep well.”

“I intend to,” she said firmly, and I had no doubt she would.

I drove home, had my swim, and after dinner that night I delivered a condensed report of my day’s activities to father. He listened closely and then went into a study—not
his
study but a brown study.

Finally he asked, “Then you are satisfied that Angus Wolfson committed suicide?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m glad to hear you say that, Archy. There has been quite enough gossip and rumormongering as it is. How is Miss Wolfson taking all this?”

“Remarkably well,” I said. “A very staunch lady.”

“Yes,” he said. “I phoned a friend in Boston to inquire about her family. She comes of good stock. Blood will tell.”

And he was absolutely serious. Can you believe it? This from a man whose own father was Ready Freddy McNally, the most roguish second banana on the Minsky burlesque circuit!

I went to my aerie to scribble in my journal for an hour until it came time to call Jennifer Towley. The events of the day had been wearing, no doubt about it, and I was sorely in need of a spot of R&R. I had a vision of a delightfully mellow evening with Jennifer.

But it was not to be. She came on the phone distraught and close to tears.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“Nothing,” she said. “Or everything. I don’t think I better see you tonight, Archy.”

“I think you should,” I told her. “I listen very well.”

She didn’t speak for a beat or two, then said, “Yes, I need a sympathetic ear. Will you come soon?”