McNally's Dilemma (23 page)

“Waiting tables is something they do between the Actors Studio and winning an Academy Award,” Veronica observed.

“I was in a restaurant with Binky Watrous one night and he asked our waitress if she was an ‘expiring’ actress. She said, ‘I hope not,’ and Binky said he could have sworn she was.”

Veronica looked amused. “How is Binky? All over his rabies scare?”

“Yes, but now he’s suing Hobo.”

“Poor Hobo,” Veronica lamented.

Poor Melva. Poor Hobo. What a town this was. Didn’t anyone in Palm Beach feel sorry for the victim? Eric brought our drinks and menus, and trailing him was a young lady who was tugging on the elbow of a man in uniform like a mother delivering her son to the dentist.

“Veronica,” she cooed, bending to kiss Veronica and almost dunking her nose into a Sterling martini. To me, she said, “Please, don’t get up. I just couldn’t leave without saying I’m so sorry.”

I had as much intention of getting up as she had of revealing the reason for her sorrow.

“This is Fitz,” Veronica informed me, but I already suspected that here was the famous Elizabeth Fitzwilliams. And what a knockout was Fitz. A brunette with blue eyes and a figure that would cause a ninety-year-old Buddhist monk to regret his vows.

“Archy here,” I introduced myself.

“Hello, Archy,” Fitz said. “And this is Ensign Douglas Wilson.”

So, the ensign came to dinner and walked off with the dessert. Douglas looked as if he had just stepped off the cover of
Military Life.
Crew cut, square jaw, and tight-lipped. He nodded but thankfully did not salute.

“We won’t interrupt,” Fitz babbled on, “but couldn’t leave without saying—well, you know. I’ve been trying to get you on the phone all day, Veronica. It’s always busy.”

“I pulled the plugs,” Veronica told her.

“How exciting,” Fitz once again cooed. She sounded as if she might run home and implore her mother to shoot her father so she, too, could unplug the phones. “Then call me,” Fitz said, moving away and taking Douglas with her, “we must catch up.”

“I will,” Veronica promised. As we watched them gyrating their way through the maze of round tables, Veronica whispered, “What do you think of Fitz?”

“Lovely. But gentlemen prefer blondes.”

“Not Douglas, and from the way she’s hanging on to him I expect they’ll be engaged before the night ends.”

“So soon?”

“Not for Fitz. She gets engaged at least once a month. The last one was a quarterback from Purdue.”

“What happened to him?”

“He was demoted to third string due to chronic exhaustion.”

“Oh my, that was naughty,” I chided.

“It was. Let’s order, I’m starved.”

“We’ll not have the green linguine,” I said, opening my menu.

“Why not?”

“Because everyone has the green linguine and I refuse to amble along with the herd.”

I summoned Eric and he rattled off the evening’s specials with a flourish. Veronica settled on the grilled pompano and I chose a rib eye. For openers, we both went for the crabmeat cocktail.

The bus person (who was a he) supplied us with bread and rolls and as we eagerly buttered up, I made my second error of the evening by asking, “What did you think of Seth Walker?”

“Who?”

“Seth Walker,” I repeated. “He introduced himself to you at Lady Horowitz’s reception.”

“You mean the Fairhursts’ chauffeur?”

“None other.”

Veronica nibbled on her roll. “Adorable. That’s what I think. And how do you know he spoke to me at that awful woman’s party?”

Poor Lady C. Really, she wasn’t that bad. “My friend Connie Garcia is secretary to Lady Horowitz. She told me she saw you talking to him and remembered because Lolly Spindrift called her after the party to ask who the boy was.” I purposely left out Mrs. Marsden as the person who had identified Seth for me.

Veronica helped herself to another bite of her roll. I do so like a girl with a hearty appetite. “He crashed the party, you know. Seth, that is, not Lolly. Strange how Lolly and I seem to attract the same men.”

“No, my dear. You attract the same men Lolly is attracted to. Did Seth invite you out?”

She patted her lips with her napkin. “Why am I being interrogated?”

“Maybe because I’m jealous. Did he ask you out?”

“Do you know him?” she asked, as if the possibility had just occurred to her.

“We’ve met.”

“Where?”

“Sorry, I’m not at liberty to say.”

She finished her martini before saying, “Neither am I.”

We had come to an awkward impasse, thanks to my clumsy inquisitiveness, which was saved by the arrival of our crabmeat cocktails. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to sound like a mole for the CIA. I’m doing a job for John Fairhurst and I was at the Fairhurst house today and met Seth. I remembered the connection between him and you and Lolly. Now let’s enjoy the crabmeat. It’s too expensive not to.”

She picked up her cocktail fork and dug right in. “Connections,” she repeated. “That’s the story of Palm Beach, isn’t it? Everyone is connected. A chauffeur to an heiress to a gossip columnist to a private investigator. Well, we’re an eclectic band of rogues, I’ll say that for us.”

On that note we ate our crabmeat, careful not to ingest the lettuce beneath the fish, which would have been gauche. No sooner had our bus person removed all traces of our appetizer than who should appear—all six feet, two inches of him—looming over our table, but Buzz. The bar was swarming with those of a nautical bent.

“Hi, Veronica. Hi, Archy.”

“I thought we were in Siberia,” I said to my tablemate. “But it looks more like Grand Central Station to me.”

“Oh hush, Archy,” she rebuked me. “How are you, Buzz?”

“I was seen by twenty million viewers,” he proudly told us. “I checked the ratings.”

“Then shouldn’t you be home answering your fan mail?” I asked him.

“I didn’t get any yet,” he said, sounding certain that the morning mail would contain a thousand requests for autographed photos. “Have you heard about the ball?”

“If you mean Lady Horowitz’s ball, how did you hear about it?” I countered.

“Everyone is talking about it. A masked ball, and Lady Horowitz has asked me to be a page. I’m being fitted for silk breeches.”

I remembered
Adventures of a King’s Page,
published in London in 1829, and shuddered. “When did you meet Lady Horowitz?”

“Today. Lolly brought me to her place for tea. Some house.”

Tea, indeed. There was a name for men who introduced people for the purpose of cohabitation, and I’d remind Lolly Spindrift of that fact the next time I saw him. “Lady Horowitz’s ball is not a very pleasant subject for Veronica, you klutz.”

Buzz looked as contrite as he knew how, which wasn’t very repentant. “I didn’t mean to offend,” he apologized.

“It’s all right, Buzz,” Veronica said. “That woman’s party is not your doing, and I still appreciate what you did for me the other day.” Veronica had a weakness for handsome, young men.

“Thanks,” Buzz said and, feeling vindicated, he bounded off with a wave, a grin, and nary a trace of egg on his face.

Our dinner arrived and not a moment too soon. I ordered a white Burgundy for Veronica and a Beaujolais for
moi.
Eric poured the customary dollop of wine from each bottle for us to taste and after we both gave it the nod, he filled our glasses. My steak was what is known in some gourmand circles as “Pittsburgh.” Black on the outside and red within. I trust the name came from those iron mills pioneered by Andy and John I. Eric tossed our salad—oil, vinegar, and a sprinkling of finely grated Romano—and we began this delightful meal in the middle of which Veronica dropped a bomb.

“You’ve met Seth before today,” she informed me.

“I doubt it. I never forget a face. What makes you think so?”

“He was with me at Hillcrest—in the chat room. I believe you exchanged words.”

I was fast losing my appetite. “You went there to meet him? Why?”

“Because he invited me.”

“Do you always go where people invite you?”

“No. Only when I want to.”

That seemed to say it all. We continued eating in silence. I couldn’t help thinking how foolish pretty, young girls could be, and judging from Veronica’s pleased expression, she was thinking that the grilled pompano was delicious. By the time our coffee arrived, she once again opened up to me.

“Archy, I went to the Horowitz reception with Fitz and her parents. Like all those so-called charity events, it was one big bore, and suddenly there was Seth. So attractive, I thought, and daring. And he never pretended to be anything than what he was—the Fairhursts’ chauffeur. Of course, the only reason the Fairhursts were there was because the reception benefited some children’s hospital where Mr. Fairhurst is on the board of directors. That Horowitz lady knows how to pull in the big fish. And that’s it.”

No, I thought—that isn’t it. “And he invited you out?”

“Yes. I saw him again the following evening.”

“And the night after that you met him at Hillcrest?”

“I just told you I did.”

“Have you seen him since?”

“How could I? I spent the next day and night with you, and I’ve been with my mother ever since. And I have no intention of seeing him again. I’ve grown up in the past two days, Archy, and Seth Walker no longer amuses. Now, can we drop the subject?”

“With pleasure,” I said.

One very clever paparazzo was waiting for us outside Ta-Boo’, but we didn’t even say “cheese” when he took the picture that would make the front pages of the morning tabloids.

When I took Veronica home, I made my third error. I kissed her good night. Not a brotherly kiss, but the kind of kiss mothers warn their daughters against, especially when indulged in convertible ears with their tops up. I pulled up in front of Veronica’s door at eleven-fifteen. She left the Miata at five minutes to midnight.

“W
ELL, IF IT ISN’T
our celebrity of the day.” Lady Cynthia Horowitz was sitting poolside in a recliner, protected from the noon sun by a humongous beach umbrella. Many women her age in Palm Beach never showed their face in the bright light of day, but Lady C. seemed to enjoy doing just that, adding to her mystique as a genuine local “character.” She had a long nose with a droopy tip and a pointed chin that curved upward. No, she wasn’t a witch—but she was certainly no beauty.

Upon meeting her for the first time, I could not understand how she had managed to snare five husbands of great wealth and one Brit with a title. But when a national tabloid printed an article on this Palm Beach “character,” it was accompanied by photos of Lady C. in her prime, and while even then she had a face that could stop a clock, below was a body so voluptuous that photographers and artists vied for her services as a model. Her first nude photographs had caused a sensation and started her on her many trips down the aisle to great wealth and, ultimately, a title.

It was rumored that even Picasso had painted her, turning her goddesslike form into a stack of shingles that was greatly admired by art lovers throughout the world.

Now, at age three score and ten—at least—she had somehow managed to retain the body that had made her fortune. Wearing white shorts, white blouse, white turban, and white wedgies, she brought to mind Lana Turner in
The Postman Always Rings Twice,
and I’m certain the analogy was intended. She had also retained more moxie than any woman—or man—had a right to possess. Most noticeable among her numerous pet peeves were cigars, dogs, men who wore pinky rings, and air conditioning. She was short-tempered and, if elbowed, foulmouthed.

On the table beside her were the remains of a late breakfast and the morning paper, which featured yours truly and Veronica Manning emerging from Ta-Boo’. I must say, we made a fetching couple.

“Pull up a chair, lad,” Lady C. said with a wave of her hand. “Can I offer you a coffee?”

“That would be nice,” I answered, accepting both offers.

Lady C. poured. “Help yourself to cream and sugar. I’m not going to do it all for you.” As I did, she tapped the front page of her newspaper with a forefinger whose nail was polished with a colorless gloss. “She’s young enough to be your daughter.”

“She’s twenty-two.” I was growing weary of reminding people of this fact.

“How old are you?” she asked, without a trace of timidity.

“Old enough to know that this masked ball idea is absurd. A play for publicity that’s destined to backfire.”

“Your girlfriend told me I might hear from you on that subject. By the way, Connie is very unhappy about this.” Once again the newspaper was prodded with Lady C.’s polished digit.

I had figured as much. On my way in, I had tried to see Connie, but she was on the phone and shooed me off like a pesky fly. Not a good sign.

“And I’m old enough to tell you that you’re wrong,” Lady C. said. “I’m suddenly getting invitations from people who’ve shunned me in the past, and do you know why? Because they want to come to my ball, that’s why.”

That was not entirely true. If Lady C. had been shunned, it was because she did not enjoy dining in other people’s homes or public restaurants. She gave great parties and those who attended knew that she would refuse any attempt at reciprocation. Her love affair with society was so one-sided because that’s the way she wanted it to be. However, the upper, upper strata of Palm Beach society did not approve of Lady Cynthia Horowitz—as in the Fairhurst crowd—but I could not imagine them wanting to attend the upcoming masked ball. She was merely being cantankerous, which was par for most conversations with Madame.

This was not going to be easy, but then, I never thought it would be.

“Lolly put you up to this, didn’t he,” I asserted.

“Give me some credit, lad. Oh, Lolly added a few touches, but the idea was all mine.”

“Buzz’s silk breeches, for instance?”

Lady C. smiled, making a thin line of her mouth, which seemed to bring her droopy nose and the upward tilt of her chin into alarmingly close proximity. “How news travels in our community. Yes, that one was Lolly’s. And I can’t wait to see Buzz wearing them. Royal blue they’ll be. Would you like to be a page, Archy?” Lady C. eyed my jeans provocatively. The woman was a menace.