McNally's Dilemma (6 page)

“Paul Henreid?”

“Don’t be arch, Archy.”

I don’t think “arch” was the word she wanted, but rather than put a damper on her clever rebuttal I kept my opinion to myself. Besides, there was an edge to her voice that told me this was not the time to engage in verbal sparring with Veronica Manning.

“If you mean Geoff, one shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, my dear.”

“Why not?” She smoked, I noticed, without inhaling. The cigarette was merely a prop. Was her stiff upper lip also more show than substance? There was a lot to be learned about this young lady and I imagined the lessons would be sheer delight.

“I don’t know why not. It just isn’t done,” I told her.

“My stepfather did many things that just aren’t done.”

“Your mother never complained.”

“My mother was a fool. Did she ever give you that line about not frightening the horses on Main Street?”

“As a matter of fact, she did.”

“Don’t rock the boat. Don’t rattle the beads. Leave well enough alone. Less said, soonest mended. Those are some other tenets my mother swore by. She knew what he was up to, but instead of tossing him out on his behind, she pretended it didn’t matter as long as he didn’t frighten the horses on Main Street. When her own eyes blew the cover on her denial, the volcano finally erupted.”

Melva’s daughter sounded like a cross between a page out of a Psychology 101 text and a lawyer summing up the defense’s case.

“Maybe she loved him. Did that ever occur to you?”

“If you’re referring to his prowess in the bedroom, Archy, just say so.”

“I would, if that’s what I was referring to.”

She rolled down the window and discarded her cigarette. Waste not, want not was a tenet I lived by, but didn’t say so. The cigarette’s glow carved a red line in the early-morning breeze, and I recalled the red line extending from the hole in Geoff’s chest down to his navel—his body as cold as his stepdaughter’s feelings for him.

“I’m sorry,” she said, raising the window. “I’m just rambling.”

“I understand.”

She turned her head toward me. “There was a time when I thought mother would marry you.”

“And would that have pleased you?” My heart gave a tiny leap in anticipation of her answer. Archy the fool.

“I liked you and you made me laugh a lot. But the way you dressed! I was afraid of what the girls at school would say if they saw you in one of your silk berets. I think I was going to try to palm you off as an artist.”

“Con artist, no doubt.”

“Well, you must admit your style is not exactly conventional.”

“I’m an individual.”

“You’re cute, Archy.”

Finally, a statement we both agreed upon.

After this brief respite from our more weighty conversation, she lapsed into silence once again, and I did nothing to discourage it until we neared home. Then, quite casually, I asked, “Did you turn on the alarm at the front gate when you went out this evening?”

She was either nodding out or in a trance. “Did I do what?”

“Your mother told me tonight that the first person to leave the house in the evening turned on the security system at the front gate. She said it was a house rule.”

“It is. And yes, I usually turn it on.”

“And did you tonight? Or should I say last night?”

She shook her head. “I honestly don’t remember. Why? Is it important?”

“It wasn’t on when I arrived at your place.”

“If I turned it on—and my guess is that I did, out of pure habit—Geoff must have turned it off when he came in.”

“Why would he do that?”

“Because we don’t keep it armed during the day. It’s not necessary and a nuisance with all our coming and going.”

“But no one would turn it off when they came in,” I argued. “That would leave it unarmed for the remainder of the night.”

“Archy, I have a headache and I don’t understand what this is about. Maybe I didn’t turn it on when I left. I can’t remember. But what does it have to do with my mother...” And here, Veronica Manning finally broke down and cried.

Hobo came out to greet us, rather reluctantly I thought, and took an immediate shine to Veronica’s ankles. No fool, Hobo. I took her to the guest room on the second floor, which, thanks to Ursi, was always at the ready.

“It was my sister’s room,” I said, “and when she visits with her family she still occupies it. I’m sure you’ll find something suitably feminine to sleep in. There are fresh towels in the bath and perhaps even a jar of night cream to make you feel right at home.”

“Thank you, but I’m a soap-and-water girl.” She allowed my jacket to slide off her shoulders with the graceful ease of an exotic dancer. Archy the optimist. “I’m going to look a sight in this dress at breakfast.”

“A very lovely sight, night or day,” I said. “But I think my sister has left some casual wear about. Mostly things that she’s grown out of, but you didn’t hear that from me. Jeans and sweatshirts abounded, as I recall, and I’m sure you’ll find some that will fit.”

“Jeans, a sweatshirt, and Manolo Blahnik pumps. How chic.”

“Hey, I told your mother I’d put you up for the night, not outfit you. But with any luck there should be a pair or two of Dora’s sneakers about.”

“Dora? Of course, your father’s passion for Dickens. You see, I haven’t forgotten. Where’s Dora now?” Veronica removed her Blahnik pumps as we talked. Perhaps if we talked long enough...

“Arizona. Scottsdale, actually.”

“And she has a family?”

“Indeed. A husband and three children. Or is it three point two children? Well, you can be sure Dora has whatever the national average boasts. They are a very average family, but nice in spite of that.”

“I’m sure,” she said with little enthusiasm. She walked to a window at the far end of the room and pretended to look out, but I was sure all she could see was the dark reflection of her own face in the glass. Then she turned to face me once again and cried, “What’s going to happen to us, Archy?”

“Do you want me to say everything is going to be just fine?”

“Don’t you dare.”

“Okay. Then I’ll tell you. It’s going to be a three-ring circus with you and your mother jumping through the hoops and the press cracking the whip. I was able to protect you tonight because we’re one short step ahead of the media, but when your mother was booked—I would say about two hours ago—the news hit the wire services. My guess is that the local boys are already charging your unarmed security gate and the New York boys are cabbing it to La Guardia and Kennedy. Unless you choose to disappear, it’s going to be hell, kid.”

“I won’t leave my mother,” she protested. “When will she be released?”

“If, not when, the judge allows her out on bail. There could be a hearing as soon as tomorrow, or today, actually. She’ll have called her lawyers in New York, but the earliest they can get here is late tonight.”

“Can you represent her until they arrive?”

“Unfortunately, no. A disagreement between myself and Yale Law makes that impossible. But I will ask my father to arrange to have someone from the office speak to Melva first thing this morning.”

“Thank you, Archy.”

“Now let’s try to get some sleep. We’ll need it, believe me.”

“What are her chances, Archy?”

“Very good, I would say. Her offense, I’m sure, will be tried as a crime of passion. Seeing Geoff and that women having sex in her home rendered your mother temporarily insane, making her not responsible for her actions. It wasn’t premeditated murder. Hence, they’ll most likely go easy on her. Of course, a lot depends on the corroborating evidence of your stepfather’s playmate.”

“Is that necessary?” She seemed naïvely surprised.

“Necessary? My dear Veronica, it’s imperative. Without her testimony, Melva’s word is pure hearsay.”

She shook her head and grimaced. “But it’s so sordid. So cheap. The kind of thing people like us don’t talk about.”

How pathetic, I thought. “If it’s the kind of thing people like you don’t talk about, then it’s the kind of thing people like you shouldn’t indulge in. But you did. Or your stepfather did, and the volcano erupted, unquote.”

“I’m sorry, Archy.” She buried her face in her hands and bowed her head, causing her hair to cascade like a golden veil. “How many times have I said that tonight?”

“Who’s counting?”

“I didn’t mean it the way it sounded,” she said, picking up where she had left off. “But suppose they can’t find this woman?”

“It’s not a thought conducive to a good night’s sleep, so let’s concentrate on something more cheerful, like World War Three.”

She smiled and came to me, kissing my cheek. I was once again aware of her particular scent and—not helping my role as benevolent and benign benefactor—the feel of her breasts against my chest. Veronica Manning wasn’t wearing a bra.

“Thank you, Archy. I’m grateful for your help and this elegant port in a storm.”

I wondered what would have happened if I took her in my arms and kissed those sensuous lips. I was ashamed of my thoughts, but that didn’t make them any less potent.

In my third-floor nest I undressed, splashed cold water on my face, and got into bed. Sleep did not come when my head touched the pillow—or for some time thereafter. My mind throbbed with thoughts both prurient and academic. The former I know how to quiet, but refrained; the latter I struggled with until dawn.

Why was the alarm at the front gate of the Williamses’ house turned off?

Did Veronica always give her mother the address of where she could be found when she went out in the evening?

When Melva heard a car return she said she thought it was Geoff. Why didn’t she think it could have been Veronica, who was also out that evening?

And something Hattie said had struck me as odd at the time, but the thought had vanished before taking root. What was it?

When I did fall asleep, I dreamed I heard Hobo barking.

T
HE PIERCING RING OF
my telephone jolted me out of a sound sleep at ten
A.M.
I awoke thinking Quasimodo had lost it in the campanile and immediately pulled the covers over my head. This did nothing to discourage the caller. I rose and moved toward the dastardly object like Boris Karloff in
The Mummy.
The telephone, it is my belief, is the underlying cause of modern man’s inhumanity to man. Its jarring summons on this gray morning did nothing to dispel that learned thesis.

“Archy here.”

“Archy’s father here.”

This mummy was instantly wide-awake, if not raring to go.

“Yes, sir?”

“Did I wake you?”

“I was about, sir.”

“About what?”

“About to get up, actually.”

“Late night, Archy?”

“Late morning would be nearer the mark.”

“I take it the young lady Ursi told me was asleep in the guest room is the Manning child?”

“She’s not a child,” I quickly corrected, in defense of my lascivious longings. My few hours’ rest had done nothing to alleviate my untoward desires. “She’s twenty-one, at least.”

“The child’s age is of no consequence, Archy.”

“If you say so, sir.”

“And I take it, once again, that the rather showy vehicle blocking our garage, and making me late for an early-morning client meeting, belongs to Miss Manning?”

Hanging by the thumbs was too kind a punishment for Binky Watrous. Chinese water torture? Iron mask? “It is. I had to—”

“No need to explain, Archy. Regarding our bid for poor Melva’s case, you’ve obviously held up your end very well indeed, and I’ve been doing my share here at the office.”

Bid? I thought I was helping a friend, not selling the services of McNally & Son. The sire’s approach to things material never ceased to amaze me when it didn’t amuse me. And judging from his hale and hearty tone, father was in a jubilant state this morning, which I attributed to the sound of cash registers ringing on Royal Palm Way.

“I spoke to Melva’s lawyers in New York,” he continued. “They do have a good man qualified to practice in Florida, and he, with a team, are on their way here as we speak. I’ve offered them office space at McNally & Son as well as
carte blanche
use of telephones, fax machines, etc. They have wisely accepted. We’ll also give them input from our perspective as Florida-based counsel.”

When they see the
carte blanche
tab, they’ll think they’ve rented space in Buckingham Palace. Of course, I didn’t say that. What I did say was, “I was going to ask you to send one of your attorneys to the courthouse to see what they could do for Melva before her lawyers get here.”

Our operation is a legal supermarket, sans the pushcarts and double coupons. Estate planning, taxes, revocable and charitable trusts are our mainstay, but we also employ associates skilled in litigation, real estate, copyrights, trademarks, patents, divorce, malpractice, personal and product liability, and, on a retainer basis, a man qualified to practice criminal law. This last was surely the man Father would dispatch to represent Melva.

“Naturally, I sent a most qualified attorney to consult with Melva first thing this morning.”

Naturally. “How is Melva doing?”

“Remarkably well,” Father said. “Class will tell, my boy. We’re trying to get a bail hearing as soon as this afternoon, but I doubt that will happen. However, I’d rather have her lawyers here when we go before a judge.”

So, if she’s not let out on bail, McNally & Son won’t be held accountable. Shrewdness, like class, will also tell. “Very good, sir. I thought I would stick with Veronica, Miss Manning, that is, and help her get back to her home without being bamboozled by the press.”

“Very noble, Archy, I’m sure. However, I need you here at precisely twelve noon.”

“Nothing that could be postponed?” I asked hopefully.

“Afraid not, Archy. We have an appointment with John Fairhurst the Third.”

Well! No wonder
mon père
was jubilant. McNally & Son suddenly held Melva Ashton Manning Williams and John Fairhurst III in tandem, so to speak, and all in one day. John the First was a mogul on par with the Messrs. Morgan, Gould, Carnegie, Mellon, and Frick. I could see my father twirling his mustache as he spoke the name. John Fairhurst III was Palm Beach’s most distinguished citizen and its richest, although to Prescott McNally those attributes would seem redundant.