Sabrina Wright.

She was perched on a faux leather stool at Bar Anticipation looking exactly as she did in her author photo on the jacket of her latest bestseller, Desperate Desire. Her ebony hair was drawn back so severely from her scalp as to render her startled at what e’er she looked upon and, I suspect, served as a do-it-yourself face-lift. Her eyes were like two shiny, black olives; her complexion was one that had never felt the sun’s warmth, and her lips, painted the color of a fine Bordeaux, were pursed in an elongated moue reminiscent of the late actress Joan Crawford. She wore a smart white linen suit and black-and-white sling-back pumps that drew just enough attention to her well-turned ankles and calves. Before her was a frothy concoction in a stemmed glass known, I believe, as a Pink Lady.

Sabrina Wright’s novels are bodice-rippers par excellence. Her first, Darling Desire (Darling being the heroine’s given name), enjoyed fifty-two weeks on the New York Times bestseller list, usurped, finally, by her second blockbuster, Dangerous Desire. She subsequently penned such memorable classics as Deceptive Desire, Dark Desire, Demanding Desire, Devious Desire, and Delicious Desire, as well as this year’s sensation, Desperate Desire. Collectively known as the Books of Desire, they had been released as a Moroccan-leather boxed set, illustrated in full color, and translated into thirty languages, including Swahili. For the visually challenged they were available in large print as well as Braille. Sabrina Wright’s oeuvre had spawned films, miniseries and a long-running evening soap. Needless to say, I approached with caution. “Ms Wright, I presume.” She turned, startled. “Mr. McNally. How good of you to come.” The voice was deep if she sang she would be an alto and pure New York. The delivery announced her point of origin with neither pride nor shame, but as a matter of fact. I moved in closer but avoided mounting the empty stool next to her. “Are you aware, Ms Wright, that you are sitting in the most infamous bar in south Florida?” Her dark eyes scanned me, from head to size-eleven white bucks, as her claret lips curved into a condescending smile. “My readers wouldn’t have it any other way, Mr.

McNally. In Chapter One, my heroine is hustling drinks in a dive like this. In Chapter Five, she owns the joint, and by the final page she’s waltzing down the aisle with a title, be it corporate or of the blood.”

So the lady had not only borrowed Joan Crawford’s lips, she had also borrowed Joan’s film plots. As B. Brecht had so aptly put it, “From new transmitters come the old stupidities.” Pointing to the empty stool, she invited me to sit. Gray sharkskin merged with Naugahyde as I accepted the offer, saying, “Have you ever considered altering the plots?” “If it’s not broke, Mr. McNally, why fix it?” Why indeed?

“May I ask how you got my name, Ms Wright?” “From the Yellow Pages.”

“I’m not in the Yellow Pages.” “Precisely. If you were, I would not have called. One cannot be discreet and in the Yellow Pages. That would be an oxymoron.” She referred, no doubt, to my position as sole employee of a section of the law firm McNally amp; Son, Attorney-at-Law, yclept Discreet Inquiries. My father is the attorney, I am the Son, who left New Haven after being expelled from Yale Law. Upon my return in disgrace to Palm Beach, my father provided me with gainful employment as a Discreet Inquirer. If our rich clients should find themselves in a compromising position, they may come to me rather than seek help from law enforcement agencies because they do not wish to see their problems headlined in tabloids for their housekeepers to peruse while waiting in the checkout line at Publix.

I tell people I was tossed out of Yale Law for streaking across the stage, naked except for a Richard Nixon mask, during a performance by the New York Philharmonic of Shostakovich’s Symphony No. 9 in E-flat major. If you choose to believe that, fine. If not, I will give you a hint that is closer to the truth. It wasn’t a Richard Nixon mask and it wasn’t Shostakovich’s Symphony No. 9.

I was in my office, located in the McNally Building on Royal Palm Way, when Sabrina Wright’s call came through. My office is a windowless affair originally intended, I believe, to be a storage closet, albeit a very small storage closet. My father, the venerable Prescott McNally, took pity on me one sweltering August several years back and ordered our maintenance crew to install an air-conditioning duct. This act of kindness made the room’s ambiance more amiable not only for me, but for penguins, should they care to stop by. If you think mon pere is chagrined over my misunderstanding with the authorities at Yale, you are correct.

“This is Sabrina Wright,” she announced in the manner of a grande dame on the intercom with her kitchen help. I confess, when I ran the name Sabrina Wright through my mental Rolodex I came up with zilch. However, I found it impossible to say no to a sultry female voice imploring me to meet her in a low-life hangout at high noon. Had I refused I would have had to turn in my Mickey Spillane decoding ring as well as my gumshoes.

One of the resources of a good law firm is its library. At McNally amp; Son we are doubly blessed with our librarian, Sofia Richmond. Sofia is a superbly qualified librarian, a computer whiz and a researcher nonpareil. In addition, she not only keeps abreast of all the Palm Beach gossip but, with a little coaxing, will impart what she knows.

Reluctantly, I sought Sofia’s help in identifying Sabrina Wright. I say ‘reluctantly’ because I am celebrating one year of almost being a nonsmoker. Sofia puffs away happily and will die, I am sure, at the age of one hundred and one with the healthiest pair of lungs in captivity. Leaving my English Ovals behind, I headed for the library.

I found Sofia at her computer, surrounded by intimidating tomes, legal briefs, and an ashtray the size of a flying saucer. Looking at me through her horn-rimmed glasses she tossed out, along with a cloud of smoke, “You look cute.” In my dove-gray sharkskin suit, blue cambric shirt sans cravat, and white bucks left over from my preppy days, I must say I had to admire her keen perception and wished I could return the compliment. But, alas, with her thick spectacles, tight French braid, sturdy oxfords, and two-piece denim dress, I couldn’t bring myself to respond in kind. I have often imagined Sofia leaving work, arriving at her apartment, removing her glasses, letting down her hair, and donning a strapless sheath in shimmering ice-blue satin, after which she heads for a supper club in Boca where she is the headlined chanteuse. Her signature song?

“Let’s See What the Boys in the Back Room Will Have.” Lest you think I am off my rocker, I give you the sage words of M. de Sade: “Imagination is the only reality.” “If you fed the name Sabrina Wright into that machine, what would it spew back?” I asked. “You’re kidding,” she responded. “No. Why should I be?” “You don’t know who Sabrina Wright is, Archy?” “If I did, I wouldn’t be here, ingesting secondhand smoke when I could be contracting pneumonia in my minuscule igloo. Who is she, Sofia?” “Don’t you read novels?” she prodded. “One a week, so help me Marcel Proust.” “And what was the last novel you read?” With those glasses and that hair I could swear I was being questioned by Miss Lowinstein, my tenth-grade English teacher. “All Quiet on the Western Front.” It’s what I would have reported to Miss Lowenstein, bringing tears to her eyes. All I got from Sofia Richmond was a shrug and a cheeky retort. “Well, Archy, times have changed since the Big War. Sabrina Wright’s been leading the charge on behalf of the sexual revolution.” An occidental Kama-sutra?” I ventured. Sofia trashed her cigarette in the flying saucer. “Archy, this lady makes The Kama-sutra read like the Girl Scouts’ handbook.” It was at this point that I was given a precis of the works of Sabrina Wright, from desire to desire. “How old is she?” I asked Sofia when she had finished lecturing. Shaking her head from side to side as if counting the years, Sofia guessed, “Near fifty, I would say, but you couldn’t tell by looking at her.” She reached into her bottom desk drawer and brought out a copy of Desperate Desire. “See for yourself,” she said, handing me the book with Sabrina Wright’s photograph on the book’s back jacket.

After viewing Sabrina, I took a quick glance at the cover art which depicted a blond Amazon being ravished by a young man in football garb, sporting a film of manly prespiration and a torn jersey that bared his torso. Looking deep into the blonde’s blue eyes, the jock appeared to be saying, “My chest is bigger than yours.” “You read this stuff?” I chided Sofia. “It’s my job, Archy,” she said, retrieving the novel.

“I have to keep my finger on the pulse of the nation.” With that, she lit another cigarette. And if the nation were attempting to keep pace with the Amazon and the jock, we would be on the verge of a cardiac-arrest epidemic any moment. “The lady is in town,” Sofia was saying. Had Sofia, too, been invited to Bar Anticipation this afternoon? “How do you know that?” “There was a note in Lolly Spindrift’s column yesterday, and I quote: “That anticipated July heat wave hit town yesterday in the form of novelist extraordinaire Sabrina Wright. Here on a fact-finding mission for your next novel, Sabrina, or looking for the man that got away dot, dot, dot?” unquote.”

Lolly Spindrift is the gossip columnist for our local gazette, who favors the dot, dot, dot school of journalism in memory of the school’s founding father, Walter Winchell. “What do you suppose that means?” I asked Sofia.

“Beats me, Archy. Ask Lolly.”

“I’ll do better than that, Sofia. I’ll ask Sabrina Wright.”

I didn’t wait for the smoke to clear, so I have no idea of Sofia’s reaction to my parting shot.

“Well,” I questioned the novelist extraordinaire, ‘who gave you my name?”

A former client who wishes to remain anonymous.”

Given the ana of my clientele, that did not narrow the field, but before I could insist on a more concrete reference the bartender was before us. He was a young man with a lot of attitude, the required demeanor for the adolescents who linger in Palm Beach after the close of the season wondering why they had failed to attract a rich patron of either sex in January. Hope sprung eternal in the less frenetic dog days of mid-July.

A drink, Mr. McNally?” my hostess offered.

My drink of choice in the summer months is a frozen daiquiri, but in this venue I thought it best to stick to the basics. “What brand vodka do you pour?” I inquired of the failed Lothario.

“The brand that comes in a bottle and looks like water.” My companion found this amusing. I didn’t, but to take issue would only serve to validate the wisecrack. Besides, he was twenty years younger than yrs.

truly and all muscled P amp;V. “I’ll have one with tonic and lemon, not lime.” “And I’ll have another Pink Lady,” Sabrina ordered, confirming my suspicions. Looking around I noted that the place was doing a lively business for so early in the day and assayed the crowd as a mixture of the haves, the have-nots, and wannabes heavy on the wannabes. The one cocktail waitress did not show promise of ever owning the joint or waltzing down the aisle with a guy boasting any title other than Mister. In a move that I assumed was meant to rile me, Sabrina whispered, “What do you think of the bartender, Mr.

McNally?” “Not much. Why?” “He has a common face and a noble derriere. A lethal combination. I shall call him Chauncey and immortalize him in my next novel and remember, you heard it here first.” How could I forget it? Unaware that he had been short-listed for immortality, Chauncey served our drinks and treated us to a bowl of salted peanuts. “Cheers, Mr. McNally,” Sabrina Wright toasted. I gestured with my drink in the time-honored manner and continued to try to learn why I had been summoned into the presence. “If you won’t tell me who recommended me, Ms Wright, will you tell me why you invited me here?”

Her dark eyes darted somewhat theatrically from left to right before she confided, “I want you to find my husband.”

“I don’t take domestic cases, Ms Wright.”

She reared her head and snapped, “This is not a domestic case.”

“Your husband took a powder and you want me to find him. Where I come from, that constitutes a domestic case.”

Her Joan Crawford lips smiled, or grimaced, I’m not sure which, and finally opened so she could intone, “He did not take a powder, Mr.

McNally. My daughter ran off. I sent my husband to find her and now I seem to have lost him, too.”

Lost both her daughter and husband? How careless, I thought, however it did enlighten me on the meaning of Lolly’s dot, dot, dot item. But if Sabrina Wright was speaking to me in confidence, as I assumed she was, how did Lolly know she had misplaced her husband? Of course I would ask him, and he would stoically refuse to name his source, claiming reporter informer confidentiality, but blab it fast enough over dinner at Cafe L’Europe, ordering Krug with his beluga, at my expense. Such are the priorities of gossip columnists.

I sipped my vodka and tonic while trying to decide my next move. As Sofia had told me, Sabrina Wright was no spring chicken, despite her trim figure and porcelain complexion. Therefore it would be very unlikely that she had a daughter young enough to be considered a runaway. I munched a peanut as she observed Chauncey, though I’m not certain if it was his head or his tail that kept her captive. To rescue her from prurient thoughts, I asked, “How old is your daughter, Ms Wright?”

She turned her attention to me, more startled than ever, and answered,

“Nearing thirty.”

My mind shouted, “How near?” but what came out of my mouth was, “A woman nearing thirty cannot be said to have run off in the manner of a minor child…”

“Gillian did,” she cut me off.

“She has the right to come and go as she pleases,” I continued. “If you suspect foul play, I suggest you contact the police. And husbands have been known to run out for a pack of cigarettes, never to return

— however, I believe he has more of a legal obligation to you than does your daughter.” Here it occurred to me that the husband could be in cahoots with Gillian, both harboring a desire to flee the dubious family blessing of fame and fortune. Sabrina Wright wouldn’t be the first successful woman to rule her roost with an iron hand and a short leash.

But was Sabrina’s husband Gillian’s father? Here comes the plot twist worthy of a Sabrina Wright novel. A stepfather with a roving eye and his stepdaughter living in the shadow of a successful and, perhaps, overbearing mother. Daughter flees and step daddy goes in hot pursuit, literally as well as figuratively. Either the escapade was planned or the daughter, having taken the first step, enjoined stepfather to hop aboard the liberation train when he caught up with her. Had he, or Gillian, made a dent in Sabrina’s bank account recently? Doubtful, as I imagine Sabrina Wright kept the exchequer under lock and key, penuriously doling out the walking-around cash. Gently, I probed, “Is your husband Gillian’s father?” Again the smile, or grimace, and, “I know what you’re thinking, Mr. McNally, and how delightfully naughty of you. Do you write?”

“I keep a journal and am told my expense account shows promise of a creative genius reminiscent of Fitzgerald in his youth.”

She flashed me a genuine smile this time and almost, but not quite, let down her guard. “Very cleverly put. We’re going to get along just fine, Mr. McNally.” “I told you, I don’t take domestic cases.” “And I told you, this is not a domestic case.” I had finished my drink but refrained from signaling Chauncey. I thought a quick retreat rather than involvement in a family squabble the better part of valor. But, like a good mystery you hate to abandon without knowing who done it, I wanted an answer to my question.

“Is Gillian your husband’s daughter?” I repeated. This time I got the phony smile, which was wearing thin. “He is not, Mr. McNally, but unlike a Sabrina Wright novel, Gillian and Robert, my husband, did not flee in tandem, so to speak. She ran off with a young man of her own of whom I do not approve.”

And there was the case, a domestic one to be sure, in the proverbial nutshell. “She eloped,” I stated.

“She did not,” the lady insisted.

“Then why did she leave home?”

“Why?” Sabrina Wright echoed. “Because I told her I was her mother.

That’s why.”

The explanation, direct and to the point as was the lady’s style, prompted not only another question but another drink with which to wash it down. As I awaited both, I became uncomfortably aware that Sabrina and I were being observed by the patrons of Bar Anticipation, like a couple of germs on the stage of a mad scientist’s microscope. Someone had obviously recognized Sabrina Wright and the gallery was abuzz with sibilant whispers. The fact that these early-afternoon imbibers were bending elbows with a bona fide celebrity had them pickled pink.

Chauncey, who had been paying more attention to his manicure than to Sabrina and me, was suddenly all over us like a cheap suit. When he replenished my drink he also whisked away our dish of peanuts and replaced it with one of macadamias and shelled pistachios. Such are the rewards of celebrity hood

Picking up the scent but lacking a tail full of colorful feathers to unfurl for her audience, Sabrina reached into her purse and pulled out an onyx cigarette holder into which she fitted a black-tipped, king-size cigarette. The result was a pipe slightly shorter than the span of the Golden Gate Bridge. The ever-hovering Chauncey struck a match for Sabrina and as the pair made eye contact over the flickering flame, I fought the temptation of lighting an English Oval and lost.

As Sabrina basked in the glow of recognition I recalled that my only previous encounter with the literary set was with the poet Roderick Gillsworth whose book, The Joy of Flatulence, was ignored by the reading public and therefore lauded by the critics. Our relationship was cut short when Mrs. Gillsworth was murdered and I fingered Roderick for the crime.

For those who wonder why a charismatic bachelor in possession of a functioning medulla oblongata one who is approaching his fourth decade chooses to live at home, the answer is Dollars amp; Sense. I occupy my own snug garret in our faux Tudor palace, tucked beneath a charming but leaky copper roof. The drip, drip, drip of the raindrops makes my three-room suite sitting room, bedroom, and bath tres bohemian, an ambiance difficult to come upon in south Florida where postmodern is all the rage.

The lord and lady of the manor are currently on a long overdue holiday, cruising the Caribbean on a luxury liner from which father can ship-to-shore the office every day and inquire of his private secretary, the formidable Mrs. Trelawney, as to the day’s receipts and, no doubt, Archy’s whereabouts.

Mother, Madelaine by name, suffers from a touch of hypertension and has grown a tad forgetful in her golden years, but remains a gentlewoman of immense charm. A gardener who raises only begonias, she has as many varieties of that tropical plant as are recognized by certified horticulturists, and then some. Her newest, an Iron Cross, was about to come into its own just as she and the guy were due to ship out of Ft. Lauderdale. Mother consented to go only after we had secured a member of her garden club to look after the new arrival and its numerous relations.

Looking after Archy were Ursi Olson, our cook-housekeeper, and her husband, Jamie, our houseman. Ursi’s cooking is one of the perks of living at home, another being the Atlantic Ocean just across the A1A from our abode where I can indulge my passion for swimming two miles every day, weather and time permitting. Our climate and my job permit far more often than they deny. While Ursi would not know a cordon bleu from a 4-H Club, she could make anything edible delectable, which accounts for the continuing shrinkage of my waistbands.

Hobo, our canine of blended heritage, peeked out of his gabled cottage as I emerged from my car. Satisfied that I was not a thief, bill collector, or religious zealot in search of converts, he returned to his afternoon siesta. I always get the feeling that I should apologize to our quadruped sentry for interfering with his power nap.

Archy!” Ursi exclaimed as I entered the kitchen, “I wasn’t expecting you.”

“I wasn’t expecting me either,” I told her, ‘but I had a noon appointment that cut into my lunch hour and thought you might whip up a snack to fill the void.”

Culottes. I had not seen a pair in ages and often prayed that I never would again but, like all my petitions for divine intervention, this, too, had gone unheeded. If more tears are indeed shed over answered prayers, my eyes are as arid as the Gobi in August.

Along with the navy-blue culottes came a white middy that lacked only a whistle on a string. Inside this remarkable outfit was Hermioni Rutherford, hope of the homeless. Red hair, the shade of which did not appear on Mother Nature’s palette, and tortoiseshell glasses completed the picture of a Palm Beach realtor of the lower echelons. In a town where eighty-seven percent of the inhabitants are millionaires and where a good number of them run up a four-digit utility bill each month to keep the beach house cool, Hermioni’s clientele content themselves with an electric fan oscillating over a bucket of ice cubes.

Binky pulled into the allotted carport of the mobile home one remove from the stationary trailer Al Rogoff called home. As we emerged, Hermioni charged me with all the grace of a smiling linebacker. “Mr.

Watrous,” she stated.

“I am Mr. McNally,” I replied. “This is Mr. Watrous.”

Eyeing Binky, she asked, “Are you two considering this as a couple?”

That went a long way in confirming my initial opinion of Hermioni Rutherford. “Mr. Watrous is contemplating making the Palm Court his bachelor digs’ weighty pause ‘if what is being offered meets his needs.”

It was one month after the summer solstice which gave me just enough daylight to get in my swim before joining the Olsons for pot luck. In honor of this mauve decade I selected a pair of mauve trunks adorned with orris braiding and a matching mesh belt. I pulled a white hooded terry robe over my shoulders and ambled across the A1A barefoot.

Amazing how traffic grinds to a halt when my wraithlike figure appears in the waning twilight. Will I meet my maker on one such balmy evening when a giddy teenager in a Porsche attempts to drive through me?

There are many who flee southern Florida in the summer for cooler climes and we natives are prone to say unto them, Ta-ta and don’t hurry back.” There is nothing like having an ocean all to yourself after a hard day in the salt mines. My shadow grew long as I walked across the tepid sand and the Atlantic was beginning to cool under a white moon, almost full, just peeking over the horizon. I swam my laps beneath a red sky, a mile north, before retracing my wet path back to my starting point. If it ain’t Eden, it’s a reasonable facsimile thereof.

When the family is all in residence we usually breakfast in the kitchen with Ursi cooking and serving after which she often joins us for a cup pa before father and I leave for the office and mother rushes to her beckoning begonias. Jamie Olson is sometimes present, lacing his black coffee with Aquavit while waiting to see if mother wants to go shopping at Publix, which I believe is the only supermarket in the world that offers valet parking, or hit the local nurseries in search of an orphaned begonia in need of TLC. For these excursions Jamie drives mother’s wood-paneled Ford wagon.

Evenings, we dressed for dinner in the formal dining room where father officiated and pontificated over the fine quality of his wine cellar, which, I must say, is superb. Being alone, I joined Ursi and Jamie in our commodious kitchen for the evening meal, and when the sire is away the offspring will play at selecting a wine of reputable vintage to enjoy with the fruits of Ursi’s labors.

Tonight, it was fricandeau, or loin of veal to the common folks. This she larded and braised and presented with roasted potatoes and onions, asparagus in lemon butter sauce, and, for color, glazed baby carrots.

For openers there was a spinach salad avec bacon and mushrooms, tossed with Ursi’s own warm bacon vinaigrette. If this is not the average American’s bill of fare on a warm summer evening, please remember that Palm Beach is not the average American seaside resort.

My contribution was a 1982 cabernet sauvignon. For appearances’ sake we toasted our benefactor, wishing him calm seas and a safe return.

Silently, I offered an invocation to Poseidon, adjuring him to treat my kin with more respect than he had shown poor Odysseus. I acknowledge the old gods because I am a firm believer in never burning my bridges and, who knows, if culottes can make a comeback, why not the original Olympians?

As expected, Ursi had spread the word of my involvement with the famous authoress Sabrina Wright. “They all knew that she was in town,” Ursi said, ‘thanks to Mr. Spindrift, but it was me who told them why she was here. You could say I had an exclusive.”

Any reaction?” I asked.

“Well, they all agreed that Ms Wright should stick to her books and let her daughter elope with the man she loves.”

That was predictable and did nothing to further my cause in locating Robert Silvester and, should he still be with them, Gillian Wright and Zack Ward. Sudden thought. Had he ever been with them? Did Robert Silvester in fact find Gillian and Zack? He told his wife he had, but it’s what my father would call hearsay. Then the guy disappears and therein lies the crux of the matter. Where had he gone, and why?

But Ursi had done my bidding. Lolly had told them Sabrina was in town and Ursi had connected me with the writer. Both Lolly and Ursi had the ear of those that mattered granted on different strata, but due to necessity the twain doth meet on Ocean Boulevard. Now, interested parties would know whom to contact if they had anything to share.

Jamie’s mandible, except when chewing, was as rigid as always, but then Jamie only spoke when he had something to say. I had dropped an ant in the pants of the Palm Beach noblesse and now had to wait on their sagacity, which, thankfully, did not hinge upon our national security.

Dessert was raspberry sorbet with Ursi’s own decadently fudgy brownies, plus a few actual berries for their antioxidant powers. Stoically refusing seconds, I withdrew to my leaky penthouse and settled in for the evening. Not having dressed for dinner summer flannels, lavender polo shirt of Sea Island cotton, white tasseled loafers and no socks of course — I went directly to my desk, got out my journal, and began recording my interview with Sabrina Wright and the case of “The Man That Got Away.” I thought a more apt title might be “The Men That Got Away,” not realizing at the time just how prophetic my own musings would be.

The men, of course, would include Gillian’s natural father, who had fled some thirty years ago; Zack Ward, who followed suit a week ago; and then Robert Silvester, just a few days ago. Originally, Gillian’s father and Silvester must have believed he was the subject of Lolly’s blind item. I omit Zack Ward because I’m sure he tipped off Lolly. Now that the Olsons had got my message out, Gillian’s father knew, or would soon know, that Sabrina was here in search of Gillian and her lover.

Would he believe it? If he did, would he find it inconvenient to have both his old flame and the result of their indiscretion on our tight little island? Too, he must be wondering why Gillian had sought asylum in Palm Beach. The guy’s feathered nest was suddenly rife with thorns.

I had no idea how I was going to go about finding Robert Silvester.

Both he and Zack Ward were strangers in our midst and therefore would not be privy to the gossip Ursi and Jamie had spread around Ocean Boulevard, so they could not link me with Sabrina. And even if they did, it was unlikely they would contact me. The deer does not attract the attention of the hunter.

So why did Zack tip off Lolly? Role reversal. Sabrina’s prey was playing the hunter. This case had all the trappings of a bedroom farce which comes with the territory when you get in the middle of domestic fisticuffs.

I undressed, washed, and donned a blue-and-white striped silk robe. I poured myself a small marc and refusing to break the rule never a second without a third I lit an English Oval.

At this juncture, as in the spring, a young man’s fancy turns to thoughts of love. It is said that the average man thinks of sex once every thirty-seven seconds. I have no doubt that Binky Watrous was canvassed on that one. If you think I was mulling over the idea of calling Connie Garcia, you are wrong. In fact, I was thinking of Bianca Courtney and her crusade for justice. More to the point, I was thinking of Bianca Courtney and her position between a boy and a bear Binky Watrous and Al Rogoff.

What Bianca needed was a sheik in a blue-and-white striped silk robe, to sweep her onto his Arabian charger and gallop off into the sunset. I have these heroic fantasies every thirty-seven seconds. Was guilt a by-product of this fantasy? Absolutely not. I am true to Connie in my fashion, hence I remain single, which makes me more a puritan than a libertine.

Being a firm believer in the sanctity of marriage, I will not take the fatal step until I am prepared to draw a blank every thirty-seven seconds and become monogamous in thought, word, and deed, till death do us part. Being as far from that goal as the distance between our planet and infinity, I remain footloose and fancy-free. A cop-out?

Sure. But it proves that one can rationalize anything, crawl into bed, stroke your cheek good night and savor the restful sleep of the just.

“Mr. McNally? This is Robert Silvester. I believe you’re looking for me.”

Was I just lucky, or was I the plaything of an author in search of a plot? To appreciate the full impact of this morning call on my febrile brain, let me begin with enumerating on the roods I bore before the mountain came calling on Mohammed.

For breakfast Ursi presented me with eggs Benedict. For those who only know from scrambled to fried to hard boiled, this delight is a toasted English muffin, upon which is placed a succulent slice of frizzled Canadian bacon, over which we have a poached egg. The resulting composition is then doused with a delicate Hollandaise sauce. Once one of my favorite egg dishes, it now brings back memories I would rather forget. Other loving couples have their song. Connie and I have eggs Benedict.

One afternoon in the not too distant past, I was lunching at Testa’s with a charming young lady, unaware that Connie was also taking her midday meal there. Seeing us, Connie came directly to our table, toting her brunch plate. I thought she intended to join us uninvited, I might add. In the manner of civilized people, I rose to introduce her to my companion. What Connie did was open the waistband of my lime-green linen trousers and slip in two perfectly prepared eggs Benedict.

So much for breakfast and remembrance of things past, but not forgotten. I drove my Miata into the garage beneath the McNally building, exchanged a few words with Herb, our security guard, and took the elevator to the executive suite. Dear Mrs. Trelawney accepted my expense report with neither meticulous analysis nor sarcastic comment.

En garde, I thought, reaching for an imaginary epee. She signed it with a flourish and handed it back to me. Poised for battle, I waited for her first parry. My father’s private secretary has two passions in life: serving the master and giving me a hard time, not necessarily in that order.

I was loathe to turn my back on her and leave. Mrs. Trelawney wears a gray wig and, for all I know, packs heat. “Thank you,” I ventured, sadly. A day without sparring with Mrs. Trelawney is like a day without sunshine.

“I have you down for a microwave,” she stated.

“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Trelawney.”

“A microwave oven,” she expanded. If she thought this clarified her meaning, she was wrong.

“I seem to have come in in the middle of the movie, Mrs. Trelawney.

Could you go back to the opening scene?”

Looking over her glasses she said, “You didn’t come in in the middle of the movie, Archy. You came in in the middle of the workday.”

This was more like the Mrs. Trelawney I had come to love. My spirits rose as I geared for combat. “Does your spy in the garage below report the time of everyone’s arrival, or just mine?”

“Just you, Archy.” She spoke without a trace of shame.

“You missed your calling, Mrs. Trelawney. One of those alphabet organizations is where you would have risen to the top of the class.

FBI, CIA, KGB, G-E-S-T-A-P-O.”

She nodded knowingly, as if agreeing with me. Mrs. Trelawney has the irritating habit of defusing a barb with a smile. And you should have been a hairdresser,” she shot back. “Love your suit.”

She referred, no doubt, to my three-buttoned, pale pink linen ensemble of which I was particularly fond. Growing more conservative with the passing years, I no longer wore it with my lavender suede loafers but now opted for a pair of shiny black brogues with cooling perforations at the tips. I thought I looked smashing, but Mrs. Trelawney was the kind of gal who would gladly kick the crutch from Tiny Tim’s grip and tell him to walk like a man.

Round one. I declared it a tie and made to depart. “See you in court, Mrs. Trelawney.”

“Just make sure you bring the microwave with you.”

I froze. “Okay, I give up. Am I supposed to say, “What microwave?”

“Binky’s microwave.”

“Binky?” I echoed. “Do you mean…”

“I mean, we’re giving Binky a housewarming and I have you down for a microwave oven. Is that clear?”

Nothing could be clearer. I glanced at my watch. Mickey’s small hand was on the ten and his big hand was on the three. I was aghast.

Minutes after ten in the morning and everyone knew that Binky had rented living space last night and a housewarming was already being planned? “Did he distribute change of address notices this morning?” I complained.

“He told Evelyn Sharif in Records that he found a place last night, with your help. Evelyn told Sofia Richmond in the library, and Sofia passed it on to me. The housewarming was my idea,” she concluded, as if she had just invented the wheel.

From Sharif to Richmond to Trelawney, a perfect double play. Binky had a gaggle of middle-aged women vying to make him comfy, like doting mothers gussying up a dorm room for their little freshman. It was those Bambi eyes that evoked the mother instinct in older women and indifference in their daughters.

There are two things I detest in this vale of tears, and they are eggs Benedict over heather-gray briefs and office parties. Being the scion of the firm’s ruler, I am forced to contribute financially to the latter but reserve my right to be a no-show at the gala. There is something almost morbid about seeing those you toil with in their cups.

Bottoms are pinched, tops are ogled, and, on occasion, romance by misadventure follows. This differs from death by misadventure in that both parties can get up and walk away from the scene of the crime.

“Why should I give Binky Watrous a microwave oven?” I wanted to know.

We did not have such an appliance in our home, thank you. Mother would never force a begonia and Ursi would never force a baked potato. Like Julian, the last Roman emperor to defend the old gods against the Christian hordes, so we McNallys fought valiantly to keep the digital world from encroaching upon our doorstep.

No fax, no e-mail, no voice mail, no PC, no WP, no CD, and no DVD.

However, you might find the odd pair of BVD’s in father’s chiffonier.

“Remember, you’re Binky’s best friend,” she announced.

“Says who?”

“Says Binky,” she argued. Binky has diarrhea of the mouth and constipation of ideas. Not wanting to singe Mrs. Trelawney’s ears and, by propinquity, her darnel tresses, I toned it down to, “Binky speaks with a profusion of words and a paucity of facts.” “You’re still down for a microwave oven.” With this she ticked my name off her list of donors. “Your father is giving china. Service for four. A starter set, don’t you know.” “Father? You spoke to the boss?” “This morning at half-past nine, as usual. I told him I would give you his regards as soon as you come in.” “You are a national treasure, Mrs.

Trelawney, and will take your rightful place in history alongside Pearl Harbor, the Lusitania, and The Fall of the House of Usher,” I was losing my cool. “Flattery will get you wherever you want to go.”

“Right now I want to go to my office and cry.” “Fine. Then go for the microwave.” “Just how much does one cost?” I asked. “About a hundred, but it depends on the size. And go with a known manufacturer; you don’t want to go cheap on this. Remember, he’s your best friend.” “I don’t have a hundred to spare,” I pleaded like one being audited by the IRS. “You will when you cash in that swindle sheet. Have a nice day, love.” The phone was ringing when I entered my office.

The Breakers was originally created as Henry Flagler’s Palm Beach Inn.

Originally build of wood, it twice burned to the ground before the current phoenix rose from the ashes. It’s said that the second conflagration was started by a PB matron giving herself a home perm with a curling iron.

I don’t know which came first, Cornelius Vanderbilt’s weekend cottage in Newport, also called The Breakers, or Flagler’s inn. I do know Cornelius never ran a B- amp;-B at his place, but then Cornelius never had a drawbridge named after him. Henry’s Palm Beach cottage, Whitehall, is now the home of the Henry Morrison Flagler Museum. Its size and opulence makes Versailles look like a pretentious bed-sitter with formal gardens.

Besides the Ponce de Leon ballroom where revelers usually gather in support of some charity rather than seeking eternal youth that they leave to skilled laser wielders The Breakers also houses several fine restaurants. Harry’s Place bills itself as a genuine English pub and is the closest thing to fast-food dining a place like The Breakers would admit to. I told the maitre d’ I was joining Mr. Silvester and as he showed me to the table, my host rose to greet me.

“Mr. McNally,” he said, extending his hand as he eyed my apparel. “I was certain it was you.”

There are times when my reputation proceeds me. Had I known I was to meet with Robert Silvester today I would have worn the summer uniform

— chinos, dark blue blazer, and loafers by the Italian shoemaker currently in fashion. (If you get caught in a pair of Mr. Gucci’s flats, you’re giving your age away.) The winter uniform finds the toffs in gray flannels, dark blue blazer, and loafers by etc. As it happened, I was happy to have come as myself as Robert Silvester had come as Everyman.

Not surprising, the guy was a good fifteen years younger than his wife with the kind of clean-cut good looks popular with Hollywood teenage idols of the forties and fifties. Think of a blond Farley Granger, e.g. Silvester’s hair was an attractive reddish brown, worn parted on the left and showing a hint of gray at the temples. I got the feeling that, contrary to the norm, the gray came from a bottle, perhaps in an attempt to look more like his wife’s husband than her son. A dozen years ago, on his honeymoon, he would have had to show proof before he could order a bottle of champagne to toast his bride. Still, his bright blue eyes and genial smile rendered him more cute than classically handsome.

“What will you have?” he asked as I sat. “This.” pointing at the drink in front of him, ‘is a pint of Guinness stout. When in Rome..

.”

I wasn’t in Rome so I ordered a frozen daiquiri before playing my first, and only, card. “You know your wife hired me to find you, so I’m obligated to report this meeting to her and tell her you’re staying at The Breakers.”

He smiled his Hollywood smile, exposing his Hollywood pearly whites.

“You stopped at the desk before coming in here and asked them if I was registered.”

I flashed him my jumbo charmer 150-watt smile and assured him that I had. “Zachary Ward and Gillian Wright are also registered, with all of you in separate rooms. How sad for the lovers.”

My drink arrived and the waiter hovered. “Give us a few minutes,”

Silvester told him. Alone once more, he said to me, “You’re very good at your job, Mr. McNally. I see I made a wise choice. And I will probably call Sabrina and tell her we’re here before you do.” He lifted his stein. “Your health, Mr. McNally.”

I drank to that and decided not to tell him he could call me Archy. “So much for my case. Do I still get fed?”

“But of course. Does a ploughman’s lunch interest you?”

“Not in the least, but the shepherd’s pie is the best you’ll get this side of the Atlantic.”

He signaled the waiter and ordered the shepherd’s pie for two. “I’m sure Sabrina filled you in on what we’re all doing here.”

“She did. But she was rather coy on how she got my name.”

Silvester nodded knowingly. Typical Sabrina. Never give anything away on page one that you might need later on. It’s the writer’s instinct.

The less you tell, the more the reader must turn pages to find out what he wants to know. With Sabrina, life imitates art.” He drank his Guinness and managed it without leaving a trace on his upper lip. “When Jill left New York, Sabrina guessed she had come here. You do know why?”

“I do.”

“Sabrina wanted to follow immediately and drag Jill home. I talked her into letting me come down alone, find Jill, and see if I could talk her into coming home. I have been acting as arbitrator between Jill and her mother since Sabrina and I were married.” He seemed to think this over, then said, “Perhaps referee would be a more apt job description.”

As he spoke I filled in the blanks. Fresh out of some Ivy League college with a baccalaureate in English lit, Silvester went to work for a big publishing house with a dream of trees that grow in Brooklyn and valleys full of dolls. He moved rapidly from assistant to associate editor to editor. One day the dream landed on his desk in the form of four hundred laser-printed pages. Robert Silvester had a winner and he showed his appreciation by falling in love with the fictional heroine of Darling Desire.

When he met the author he experienced a classic case of transference.

Sabrina Wright had been places and done things Robert Silvester had only read about in the novels he usually returned with the customary

“Not for us’ rejection letter. If Silvester was bewitched by the fictional Darling Desire he was dazzled by her flesh-and-blood counterpart. This one was not only ‘for us, it was for him.”

Sabrina’s interest in the bartender at Bar Anticipation told me she had a thing for younger men. Robert Silvester was prime and as an added attraction, as if any were necessary, he was the guy who could shape her novel into a bestseller and guide her career. Not wanting to share her editor, she had married him. Both must have thought they were getting the best of all possible worlds and if fame, fortune, and sex were the criteria, they had.

During the early days, Gillian was in Switzerland, learning how to speak French atrociously and ski beautifully. When she finished being finished she returned to a famous mother and a stepfather who resembled the ski instructor in Lausanne, who had introduced her to the arts of sex and the slalom.

“Sabrina is headstrong and adamant when it comes to getting her way,”

Silvester was saying. “She’s always dictated to Jill rather than reason with her and poor Jill was ready to make the break. Sabrina’s disclosure gave the girl just the excuse she was looking for to act on her own. There is nothing like a worthy cause to justify our actions.

Jill’s quest is her own Holy Grail.

“I thought if I could keep mother and daughter apart until I had a chance to talk to Jill it would save a confrontation between the two that would settle nothing. My error was to call Sabrina and tell her I had located Jill and Zack. She insisted on coming down immediately.”

“She didn’t tell me that,” I thought aloud.

Silvester’s shrug said that was a given. “Knowing Sabrina was practically on her way here the minute I said I had located Jill, I checked out of the Chesterfield and into here with Jill and Zack, without telling Sabrina. My purpose was to keep the warring parties from hand-to-hand combat until I had some time alone with Jill. I’d reconciled the two before and hoped I could do it again.”

“And have you?” I asked.

Silvester shook his head. “No. Jill is more determined than ever to find her father.”

Our lunch arrived and Silvester eyed his mound of mashed potatoes suspiciously. “I should have had the tossed green salad.”

Herb flagged me from his kiosk as I pulled into our underground garage.

When I reached his post he was standing by the door displaying a shiny chrome object with the lid open that might have been a relic from the Spanish Inquisition.

“How do you like it?” He asked.

“I would hate to get my foot caught in it,” I assured him. “What are you trapping?”

“Trapping?” he cried. “I’m not trapping anything. It’s a waffle iron.”

I’m a pancake man myself, but not wishing to offend I said, “Whatever turns you on, Herb.”

“It’s not for me, Archy. I bought it for Binky’s housewarming.”

Words failed me. This was clearly getting out of hand. If everyone in the McNally Building bought Binky a gift he could open a Circuit City.

“Did Mrs. Trelawney suggest the waffle iron?”

“She did,” he answered.

“Rather pushy, don’t you think?”

“You have to admit, Archy, it’s better than having to decide for yourself. I would have bought him a bottle of hooch.”

“Well, you should have. Binky won’t know what to do with that contraption.”

“It comes with an instruction book,” herb said as if he represented the waffle-iron industry.

“Binky Watrous can’t read,” I declared disparagingly.

“Then how does he deliver the mail?”

“Pneumatic tubing, that’s how.”

Herb scratched his head and grunted, “Sometimes, Archy, I don’t get your drift.”

“Sometimes, Herb, neither do I.”

In my office I found a message telling me that Connie had called.

Sandwiched between the afternoon mail I also found a consumer guide magazine opened to the page rating microwave ovens. I dropped it in my wastebasket.

Before calling Connie, I asked our switchboard to connect me with the Chesterfield. The desk clerk told me that Ms Wright was no longer in residence. True to his word, Silvester must have called his wife as soon as I left The Breakers, and Sabrina had lost no time in joining her family. By now mother and daughter would be locking horns, with Silvester and Ward acting as intermediaries when they weren’t tossing a few stink bombs of their own into the melee. And people wonder why I refuse to get spliced.

In retrospect, I had no regrets terminating the case and my association with Sabrina Wright. Her lure was sirenic, and best enjoyed from a safe distance. Get too close and you’re caught in the undertow. She was a survivor, for which I admired her, but in rough seas survivors toss cargo and crew overboard to lighten the load. That’s how they survive. Silvester had given me the answers to the questions that had been bothering me. How Sabrina had gotten my name and the reason for the covert meeting at a pub in West Palm. Having met Gillian and Zack I was convinced that they did not make the call to Lolly Spindrift and stuck to the premise that the leak had come from the hotel. True, the evidence was circumstantial, but men have been known to hang on less convincing evidence. Silvester had also filled me in on why he had arrived in Palm Beach without his wife and why he tried to keep Sabrina at bay while he talked to his stepdaughter. The pieces all seemed to fit, but as I cogitated over the events of the last two days I wasn’t satisfied with the picture that emerged. There was something missing.

Was it something I had forgotten to ask? If so, what it was kept eluding me. I knew it would surface when least expected but, as the case was no longer on my docket, there was no urgency. Final thoughts on “The Man That Got Away’: What was Gillian’s father thinking at this moment and what wouldn’t I give to know his name? Also, what wouldn’t I give not to have to tell Lolly Spindrift his interview with Sabrina Wright was caput?

When I got Connie on the line, she said she had called to see if I was still among the living. It’s Connie’s way of asking for a date. I invited her to join me for a cocktail at the Pelican after work. That’s my way of accepting.

“I was there this afternoon, hoping to see you and buy you lunch,” she said.

This was just the thing I had cautioned against when the Pelican board members decided to make the club coed. At Yale the rash move manifested itself in the fact that one now had to wear trunks in the swimming pool. If Connie had been planning to stand me lunch what could I do but say, “Let’s make it a night and have dinner.”

“Why, Archy, what a nice idea,” she said and rang off.

When my phone rang moments later, I thought it might be Connie calling to say she just remembered she was meeting a girlfriend that evening and could she have a rain check? I would pout, beg her to cancel, and issue a rain check good for a year and a day from the date noted above.

Imagine my surprise when our switchboard person announced that Mr.

Thomas Appleton was on the line, waiting to speak to me.

Are you sure he doesn’t want my father, Milly?”

“No, Archy. He asked for Mr. Archy McNally.”

“Put him on,” I said, not without a flutter of apprehension.

The next morning I called upon Sofia Richmond once again to get some background information on the Palm Beach Institute of Contemporary Art.

When I’m able, I like to do a little homework before meeting with a new client, if indeed Thomas Appleton would become a client. As he was a patron of the museum it wouldn’t hurt to bone up on its history so as to appear smarter than I am. Who knows, the guy might ask questions.

I didn’t have to delve into the Appleton family closet as its contents were more or less in the public domain. If it contained a skeleton, as I now suspected it did, its name was Sabrina Wright.

The PBICA, as it’s familiarly referred to in print, owes its existence to the philanthropists, Robert and Mary Montgomery. He is a noted attorney. The Montgomerys renovated the Lake Theater, a landmark art deco movie house that now houses the PBICA, after purchasing it from the Palm Beach Community College. The facility formerly held the contemporary art and design collection of J. Patrick Lannan. When the Lannan Foundation relocated the collection to Los Angeles, they donated the building to the college.

The PBICA purports to be a venue for major national and international art in all media and a meeting ground for the diverse populations who live in and visit the Palm Beach region. Who could find fault with that?

I got there minutes after it opened its doors to the public and wondered whom I could bill the three-buck admission charge to Appleton or Sabrina? It was most likely to show up on my expense report as a miscellaneous disbursement, a category that often comprised fifty-five percent of my expenditures, much to Mrs. Trelawney’s chagrin. I ambled around, fascinated with what I looked upon, before making my way to the second floor and the New Media Lounge.

Thomas Appleton was already there, seated before three television screens. He rose when I entered and came to meet me.

“Mr. McNally, thank you for being prompt.” He offered his hand and we shook.

Given the amount of time and energy I was putting into a case that was closed and a family affair that was none of my business, “The Man That Got Away’ could now be retitled “The Man Who Wouldn’t Go Away.” I didn’t owe Sabrina Wright a thing but couldn’t resist one last conversation with the lady to warn her of the imminent call from her former, if brief, lover. If nothing else, it would be interesting to see what her reaction would be to hearing from him after all these years — and to my being a third party to their little secret.

Did I also want to impress upon her my unique ability to ferret out the most obscure Palm Beach mysteries without really trying? Sure. I might even turn up in a Sabrina Wright novel as a PI named Danny Desire.

I made the call from my office, asking the desk at The Breakers for Mr.

Robert Silvester. It worked. I was immediately connected to his suite and doubly rewarded with the now familiar sound of Sabrina’s deep-throated, “Hello.”

“Archy McNally here,” I announced.

“Mr. McNally, what a coincidence. We were just talking about you,”

Sabrina said.

“I take it you are not alone.”

“No. Robert is with me. Why do you ask?”

“I want to pass on a bit of information that is intended for your ears only.”

There was a pause during which I thought I could hear a sharp intake of breath, or was there static on the line? “Is your daughter with you?”

Now there was no mistaking the anxiety in her voice when she answered,

“No. She and Zack are out hunting.”

Was it open season on runaway fathers? And just how did one go about tracking down a man you had never seen and didn’t even know existed until a few weeks ago? “I hope they’re not knocking on the doors of the local gentry. The people in these parts don’t take kindly to nosey strangers. They’re apt to shoot first and ask questions later.”

“I believe they went to the local library to scan the newspapers dating back to nine months before Gillian’s birthday. Clever, don’t you think?”

I thought it was rather dumb and from the mocking inflection in Sabrina’s delivery, so did she. The young people’s endeavor did prove just how hopeless poor Gillian’s chances were of finding her father after a trail gone cold for thirty years. Did she expect to turn up an item listing all the couples who had engaged in sexual congress in southern Florida nine months before her birth? “I take it you haven’t been able to talk her into abandoning the search and going home.”

“You take it right, Mr. McNally, but I’ve made them an offer they might find hard to turn down,” she boasted.

Did this family never tire of bartering their lives away? “May I know what it is?”

“Certainly,” she answered with an enthusiasm that was far too coy to be genuine. “I will give Zack an exclusive interview for his rag if he and Gillian will give up this asinine charade. Believe me, Mr.

McNally, it’s against all my principles to be misquoted in a lousy tabloid, but if it gets Gillian off the scent, I’ll do it.”

Whoever would have thunk it? Sabrina, sacrificing her principles for the sake of a one-night stand. Noblesse oblige or noblesse desperate?

This was bad news for Tom Appleton.

“What will you disclose in the interview?” I asked.

“As little as possible,” she said. I’ve had practice in saying nothing to the press in several thousand words. If he dares mention Gillian’s father I will deny everything.”

Right now the odds seemed to be with Tom but Sabrina clearly wanted to see the last of this charade, as she termed it, and the lady was at the end of her tether, which was never very long.

I gave her my professional but, uncalled-for opinion on her offer.

“Judging from what Gillian told me, I doubt she will allow Zack to accept, tempting as it may be.”

“Of course,” Sabrina exclaimed like a doting mother, ‘you met the children. What do you think of them?”

“Like I said, I think they’re two very determined people. You would do well, Ms Wright, to go back to new York and leave them to their groping in the dark. Sooner or later they’ll come home, sadder but wiser.”

“And more angry than ever,” she cried. “And estranged from me forever, I dare say. No, that would never do. We must resolve this thing here and now, Mr. McNally, and go back home together, as a family. A happy family. In short, Gillian must acquiesce to my better judgment and resign herself to playing out the hand she was dealt, as I was forced to do.”

This woman was in possession of a pair of cojones that would put the Dallas Cowboys to shame. Like Frank Sinatra, Sabrina Wright did it her way, and pity the daughter who refused to acquiesce. And now here comes Archy, the bearer of news that might help or hinder her case Appleton’s case? Gillian’s case? or none of the above? Not having a stake in the matter I rolled the dice, knowing they were loaded.

“I said I had something to tell you, Ms Wright.”

“So you did. And just what is it that’s meant for my ears alone? My bill?”

“That will come in the mail,” I promised. “You are going to get a phone call, Ms Wright. I pass this on as I believe I owe it to you as a former client. He is going to call. Very soon, I expect.”

“He? I don’t follow, Mr. McNally. Who is he?”

“He is Gillian’s father.”

If early I thought I had detected a sharp intake of breath when I mentioned the reason I was calling, I now heard the most horrific sound known to our species silence. I waited a good minute before I asked, Are you there, Ms Wright?”

“I take it you’re not joking,” she said.

“No, ma’am. He is going to call you.”

“How do you know this, may I ask?”

“You may,” I said. “I know this because he told me so.”

A pause. She was thinking, but unable to see her face I had no idea what she was thinking. “Mr. McNally, I demand to know how all this transpired.”

“It was that blind item in the paper. Remember? He thought you were down here looking for him. He contacted me, we met, and Bob’s your uncle.”

“We can do without the levity,” she cautioned, employing the royal pronoun. And just how the hell did he know you were involved on my behalf?”

She was seething and running scared. Like Chauncey’s common face and noble tail, this, too, was a lethal combination. I’m afraid I can’t tell you that, Ms Wright, without giving away the tricks of my trade.”

“Damn your tricks, mister. You tell me what you know or I’ll sue you from here to hell and back again.”

I heard a voice in the background that I assumed to be Silvester’s wanting to know what was happening. Without bothering to cover the phone’s mouthpiece with her hand in the time-honored tradition, Sabrina told her husband to ‘shut up.” A moment later she was back on my case.

“Did you hear me?” she shouted.

“Let’s not lose our heads, Ms Wright. You hired me to do a job and in the course of my investigations on your behalf, I was approached by this individual. Still acting on your behalf, I told him just why you were in Palm Beach. The truth, Ms Wright. I told him the truth or should I say, I told him what you told me?”

“What are you getting at?” She was practically ranting. A stratagem I would never have attributed to the fair Ms Frigidaire. Was her hair in disarray? Doubtful. But I bet Silvester’s was.

To be sure, her response spoke volumes. “I’m getting at nothing,” I lied, ‘but before you have your attorney present me with papers just remember who I will call to bear witness on my behalf.”

That did it. The tornado fizzled into a languid breeze. “Mr. McNally, forgive me. You must understand what’s happening here. Without warning I get a call telling me I am about to hear from someone I have not seen or heard from in thirty years. Someone with whom my emotional involvement led to dire consequences. Is it any wonder I lost my cool?”

“No, ma’am. But don’t blame me. I thought I was being helpful.”

“You are, Mr. McNally. You are.” She had it all together once again and like a good general was now sensibly getting the lay of the land.

“What does he want? Did he say?”

“He wants to make sure that you will never betray him.”

“Didn’t you tell him I was down here for that very purpose?”

That evening, I got in my swim, showered, parted my freshly washed hair neatly on the left, and combed the remainder straight back in imitation of the young Ronald Reagan in his Warner Bros, hey days Not bad. Troy Appleton’s wife wasn’t the only one who knew how to use someone else’s coiffure to win friends and get out the vote.

Satisfied with what I saw in the mirror (I’m very easy with me) I dabbed a bit of my personal and very expensive scent onto the back of my neck, donned a pair of Newport red Bermuda shorts over a matching shade of cotton briefs, and pulled a blue sweatshirt, emblazoned with a foot-long white Y, over my head. I never wear the thing in father’s presence as it evokes stares and sighs of woe that would have neighbors believe the McNallys were putting on a revival of Oedipus with a Greek chorus of one.

Actually, I wore it last winter when I took Connie to a performance of Puns of Steel by the Princeton Triangle Club at the Alexander W.

Dreyfoos Jr School of Arts in

West Palm. Connie was embarrassed but I got a round of applause from the Elis present.

Regardless of the effect the lettered shirt has on the pater, the outfit would never do for family dining were he at home. When breaking bread with the help in the kitchen on a balmy summer night, it was perfect.

The Caper of the Trojan Horse or, beware Archy bearing a microwave oven. I dressed in jeans, a pink Izod, and penny loafers. The boy next door? One look in the glass told me I had achieved that goal without shouting its intent.

After breaking my fast with fresh squeezed orange juice, cinnamon French toast with pure maple syrup and a cup of Java, Paris set out for the rape of Helen. Really, it’s just a figure of speech.

When I turned the Miata onto Ocean Boulevard I glanced in my rearview mirror and watched a black stretch limo materialize like a mirage out of the sultry air. I didn’t see it approaching when I pulled onto the boulevard so it must have been parked on the road’s shoulder waiting for a chance to join the traffic or waiting for me? In Palm Beach, stretch limos are a common sight and a fear of the mechanical dinosaurs has never been among my many phobias, but in my business it pays to keep alert.

I moved south, passing the Palm Beach Country

Club and swung onto N. County Road. The limo came with me. I stayed on N. County to Breakers Ocean Golf Course, went west on Cocoanut Row, ignoring the Flagler Memorial Bridge. I kept south to the PB

elementary school and then took a sharp right over the Royal Palm Way bridge. When I got to the mainland, the limo was no longer visible in my rearview mirror. My thrill for the day? With what I had in mind, I hoped not.

Owing to the Inland Waterway that runs smack through Lake Worth, Palm Beach island is connected to the mainland by three drawbridges. It has long been thought that should a big heist take place on the island, the police could order all the bridges up, trapping the culprits on the island. Not a bad place to linger with a sack full of legal tender, I should think.

At a trendy appliance store I purchased a microwave oven like I knew what I was doing. Instinct told me not to buy the top of the line because it would contain a lot of frills not necessary to nuking a frozen chicken pot pie. I avoided the bottom of the line because it probably would have trouble melting an ice cube. Like Americans on Election Day, I went with the one in the middle, veering slightly toward the top. My guess was that Binky would spend hours trying to bring in the evening news on the gadget’s fifteen-inch screen.

I had it gift-wrapped and a kind salesperson helped me carry it to my car. The microwave and Archy filled the Miata’s front seat. From there to the Palm Court where I parked in the space reserved for number 1170.

One space over was filled with a black Mercedes. My, my, what a surprise.

Toting the bulky package without help was cumbersome but not impossible. I hauled it up the three steps to number 1168 and rang the bell. The Greeks had landed.

Bianca opened her door, looked at the man on her doorstep holding a gift-wrapped crate, and said, “I didn’t order it.”

“It’s not for you,” I told her.

“Then go away,” she said.

“If I may explain…”

“Are you selling computers, door to door?”

“No, ma’am. It’s a microwave oven.”

“I have one,” she said. “Good day.”

Before the door closed in my face, I explained, “It’s for your neighbor Binky Watrous. I’m Archy McNally.”

Her pretty blue eyes opened wide, from her ruby lips came an “Oh!” and the faintest hint of color surfaced on her white cheeks. If Helen’s was the face that launched a thousand ships, Bianca’s was the one that got Archy to buy Binky a microwave oven. Who’s to say which face will survive the test of time? This woman was made for color snaps, picnics in summer, football games in fall, sleigh rides in winter, and chasing around the Maypole in apple blossom time.

“Mr. McNally. I am so sorry. What can I do for you?”

“Inviting me in would help my cause.” My knees were beginning to buckle, but if I put the damn thing down I feared I would never be able to lift it off the floor.

I stepped out, telling Bianca to stay put and lock her door behind me.

Like a sensible girl she did as she was told. I hopped indifferently down the three steps as if the sight of a stretch limo at my doorstep was the rule rather than the exception. The driver was leaning against the limo, arms folded. He wore a black suit with matching tie and cap.

As I approached he straightened up. My eyes fell on the bulge under the breast pocket of his jacket. My guess was, it wasn’t a fountain pen.

When I had arrived at the Palm Court that morning I noticed that Al Rogoff’s carport was empty and had been glad of the fact. Now I wasn’t so glad.

“Mr. McNally,” the driver politely addressed me. “Would you mind stepping into the car for a few minutes?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Of course,” he answered. “But I hope you’ll oblige us. This isn’t what it seems, believe me. Mr. Cranston would like a few words with you.”

The limo made for the disposal area at the end of the block before executing a three-point U-turn and heading out of the Palm Court. As it passed me, Bianca appeared at her door and called, “Who was it, Archy?”

“Only a couple interested in renting number eleven-seventy. They didn’t know it had been taken.”

“I don’t believe you,” she said.

Not wishing to get into a discussion on the subject I shrugged my regrets and waved a good-bye as I got into the Miata. When I drove out of the Palm Court the limo was nowhere to be seen. Gone, I thought, but not forgotten. I motored aimlessly until I spotted a coffee shop.

I parked and went in. The place was between breakfast and lunch, therefore just about empty. I sat in a booth, ordered a coffee and toasted English, and tried to figure out my next move.

Herb gave me a thumbs-up as I rolled past his glass closet and into my parking space. The signal meant that Mrs. Trelawney was asking for me. I knew he would be on the horn to inform her of my arrival before I was out of the car. Since my meetings with Appleton and Cranston, and especially with Cranston, I had become super sensitive to those who meddle in the affairs of others yrs. truly included. Electronic surveillance, hidden cameras in banks and offices and rest rooms, cell phones that are practically shortwave radios, and let’s not forget the old lady who lives across the street and the kid who delivers our takeout dinners. Al Rogoff took down a name and said he would run it through a national register to see what came up. Who hasn’t wondered what would come up were his name run through Big Brother’s ledger? The Internet leaves paper trails that are capable of delineating the life and times of everyone who was plugged in. Our biographies were being written as we lived them. Appleton arranges a meeting in a museum and Cranston in the backseat of his car. The museum was open to the public and at least three other people, Bianca, Mrs. Brewster, and the limo driver, had observed and recorded Cranston’s not so clever ploy.

“Rat on me and I’ll rat on you,” Cranston had intimated when we parted.

Well, Dickey boy, no man is an island because we’re all connected by that information highway which is swarming with pot holes, culs-de-sac, and sewer rats. And, as Al Rogoff might say, Archy ain’t got no credentials to present to the dame in Buckingham Palace.”

The case I had agreed to take on for Sabrina Wright had lasted less than forty-eight hours, defied a solution, included a cast of thousands, and left me clinically paranoid. I needed to relax and unwind. I needed that midnight swim with Bianca Courtney. I would even consider a few fifty-minute hours with our resident shrink, Dr.

Gussie Pearlberg, if I did not agree with Sam Goldwyn’s malapropism: A man who goes to a psychiatrist ought to have his head examined.

When Binky stuck his head in my doorway a few moments after I had traversed it, I began to regret having gotten him a position at McNally

amp; Son. Like a potent narcotic, Binky should be taken in small doses between long intervals. Now I had him in my back pocket where I did not need more bulge.

“Thanks for the microwave oven, Archy,” Binky said.

News of my visit to Bianca had traveled faster than a microwave oven could reduce a hot dog to ashes. “Did Bianca Courtney call you?” I questioned.

“No. I went home for lunch and stopped in to see her. She helped me carry it to my kitchen and she’s going to show me how to work it.”

I paused briefly, mulling his phrasing, before intoning, “I believe it comes with instructions,” not mentioning my doubts about Bianca’s own knowledge. “And you don’t want to come on too strong with your new neighbor, Binky. It’s really not necessary to knock on her door every time you pass it. Familiarity breeds contempt, as some closeted extrovert once said, and you should play hard-to-get.”

Reflecting on this sage advice, Binky remarked, “I’m so hard-to-get I’ve never been gotten.”

This was true but not in the sense that either Binky or I had intended.

Moving right along, I advised the boy to tend to his own garden.

“You’ve just moved in. You’ve got a thousand things that need doing and courting your neighbor is not one of them.”

My words went unheeded as, unable to contain his excitement, he said,

“Bianca told me that you’re taking her case. Thanks, Archy. You know I’m available for legwork and reconnaissance, as usual.”

Binky watches too much television and is beginning to talk like a script composed by ten scribes locked in a room with an unlimited supply of legal pads, pencils, and Jim Beam.. The only thing I wanted to reconnoiter on Bianca’s behalf was unmentionable, for which I did not need Binky’s help as usual.

“I’m sorry to say, Binky, that she doesn’t have much of a case. I talked to Al Rogoff this afternoon and it seems the police are satisfied that Bianca’s former employer met with an accident. After hearing the facts, I would have to agree.”

Quick to tell me how well he had integrated into the ebb and flow of life at the Palm Court, Binky disclosed, “Al had Chinese takeout last night, too. Sweet-and-sour pork and spring rolls.”

I was losing patience, a common consequence of a one-on-one with Binky.

“What Al had for dinner last night does not change or help Bianca’s case. Her only clue, the barbell, was being used as a paperweight in the garage and not for bopping the lady of the house senseless. This has been confirmed by the housekeeper.”

“Why couldn’t he have taken the barbell from the garage, used it to knock her out, then return it to the garage?”

My exasperation took the form of a sigh that came deep from within. But we are told to suffer the children, so I explained, “Because he had no reason to do her in, Binky. He doesn’t inherit anything but what might be due him as her legal spouse. In fact he may soon be looking for a rental in the Palm Court.”

“I hope not, Archy. Bianca hates him.”

And I’m afraid she’s allowed her feelings to warp her common sense. I did say I would go with her to meet this Antony Gilbert, and now I’m sorry I did.” Fearing Binky would burst into tears at this, I quickly stated that I would honor my promise, “However futile the effort.”

All smiles, Binky expressed his gratitude. I’m glad, Archy. Bianca really appreciates my help in putting her in touch with you. Anything you do will make her feel better and if you have to let her down I hope you can do it easy, you know what I mean?”

Indeed I did know. I intended to let her down over a cozy supper for two across a candlelit table overlooking a moonlit ocean. How to transport her in my red Miata from the Palm Court to a restaurant, unseen by her ever watchful neighbors, would tax the expertise of a general moving an army across a terrain rigged with land mines. I had been known to rent a Ford or a Chevy for trailing on stakeouts and might have to resort to that maneuver in the courtship of Bianca Courtney. Then, poor Binky once again aided and abated me in my determination to succumb to lust and debauchery.

Are you having dinner with us tonight, Archy?” Binky asked.

“Us? Who’s us?” Was I to be included in another Chinese takeout orgy?

“Connie and me. She’s taking me to the Pelican tonight to celebrate my move to the Palm. I think she bought me something, Archy, because she wanted to know what my color scheme was in my bath.”

“Really? And what is your color scheme?”

“The tile and walls and basin are white, so I told her white was my scheme.”

And my scheme was unfurled before me like bunting at a political convention. With Binky and Connie at the Pelican, I could pick up Bianca without being seen by Binky and not have to worry about running into Connie. Things were looking up. It was a dastardly plan, but all’s fair in love and war and wooing in a trailer park. And if Connie ever learned she was playing decoy for my philandering she would make a spa do out of me in dos minutos. The danger was an aphrodisiac to my senses. Lucky Bianca.

“I’m sorry, Binky, but I can’t join you. I have a previous engagement.

Give Connie my love.”

“I’ll tell her, Archy.” Before leaving he said with a contrived show of modesty, “I have to report to Mrs. Trelawney at four. What do you suppose that’s all about?”

That was all about Binky’s housewarming. The participating staff would get there fifteen minutes before four, with their loot, and shout surprise when the new leaseholder entered, all agog. What schmaltz. I had to remember to tell Binky to make a list of who gave him what so when recompense time rolled around in the form of Lucy’s wedding, Moe’s retirement, and little Jason’s bris, he could respond in kind. “You know very well what it’s all about, young man. You will walk into Mrs.

Trelawney’s office bereft of household furnishings and emerge better stocked than Sears. You’ll not get it all into your car in one trip.”

“I rented a U-Haul,” he boasted.

“Don’t you think that was a little presumptuous?”

“You always told me to come prepared, Archy, remember?”

Unfortunately, I do remember. That rash counsel led to Binky purchasing a gross of condoms, which he keeps in the trunk of his car.

If he ever gets stopped and searched I’d like to be present when he explains the cache. “Enjoy your moment in the sun,” I told him.

“You won’t be there?”

“No. I don’t attend office galas; that’s why I brought my gift to your door.”

To Bianca’s door,” he corrected.

“Yes. To Bianca’s door.”

Binky left, momentarily, and returned with, “Who was in the stretch limo, Archy?”

Poor Dickey Cranston. The only person who didn’t know about his car being at the Palm was Her Majesty unless, of course, she had ordered Chinese takeout from the Pagoda. “None of your business, Binky.”

“That’s what I thought. See you, Archy.”

The phone rang. It was Connie inviting me to dinner at the Pelican. I told her, as I had just told Binky, that I had a previous engagement. A business engagement,” I stressed.

“What kind of business?” The ever trustful Connie stressed right back.

“The kind of business that pays the rent, that’s what kind.”

“You don’t pay rent, Archy.”

“It was a figure of speech.”

“Really? Well, make sure that’s the only figure you’ll be doing business with tonight.”

Connie has a way of belying our ‘arrangement’ that gets me right where I live. I told her I was seeing an old friend of my father’s who was eighty-six, in a wheelchair, and thought senile was a river.

“Sounds like fun,” Connie said.

“Not as much fun as dinner with you and Binky. What did you get the boy?”

Two bath towels, two hand towels, and two face cloths. All in royal blue.”

“But his scheme is white.”

“The room is white,” Connie said. “It must be like living inside a giant eggshell. It cries out for contrast.” A moment later she was jabbering, “And have you heard about his new girl? She lives next door. Binky is acting like a schoolboy.”

“I’ve never known Binky to act like anything but. And he’s had crushes before this. In fact he’s seldom without one.”

“But never one right next door, Archy. With Binky it’s usually out of sight, out of mind, but with this one he’ll very seldom be out of sight. He’s going to tell me all about her tonight.”

Not unless I killed him first and hid his body in the U-Haul. Binky would tell Connie how he had so gallantly brought Archy and Bianca Courtney together in the interest of justice. He would bare the saga of the microwave drop-off, the date to visit her former place of employment, etc.” etc.” and et al. By the time he finished, Connie would be shredding the royal-blue bath towels with her painted talons.

God help me. But why should he? I’m a cad.

“Connie,” I began, not knowing what would come next.

“Gotta go, Archy. Madam is buzzing. Can you get her a meeting with Sabrina Wright? She keeps asking.”

“Sabrina Wright and I are incommunicado.. ” Click. The line went dead, but not for long. Before I could formulate Binky’s demise it rang again.

“Archy McNally here.”

“You black-hearted swine. You two-timing sod. What happened to my interview with Sabrina Wright? I told my editor it was in the bag and he reserved space. I now have a lot of space to fill and nothing to fill it with except, hopefully, your obit.”

“Lolly, give me a chance…”

“I did give you a chance. I revealed my source in return for a favor and got the shaft.”

“You said your source was an anonymous caller.”

“So I revealed my anonymous source, what difference does it make? What the hell is going on, Archy? Tell me and no McNally finagling or I’ll do you-know-what for you-know-who-to-read.”

I was being threatened with blackmail from every corner. Now I had to placate Lolly, silence Binky, and place him in the U-Haul, call Bianca to do you-know-what, and prevent you-know-who from reading about it.

What’s a Discreet Inquirer to do? There just weren’t enough hours in the day.

“Sabrina’s not speaking to me, Lol. She ended our brief relationship before I could set you up with her. That’s the truth.”

“Sabrina Wright is yesterday’s news,” Lolly’s tirade continued. “She’s at The Breakers, still playing Garbo, but her daughter is all over town acting like a publicity-crazed starlet.”

I was already seated, so I couldn’t collapse into a chair. “What are you talking about?” Did I sound convincing? It made no difference.

Lolly was so excited he wouldn’t notice if I were, nor would he care.

“The girl, her name is Gillian, visits the library daily, and delves into the archives of our local periodicals. She’s interested in any social items that date back decades.”

“How do you know this, Lol?”

“Because she calls my editor and questions him about these items.

Archy, the guy wasn’t born when the stories ran. Colleagues tell me she also calls other rags, from here to Miami, asking the same thing.”

This was the worst possible scenario come to fruition. Those star-crossed lovers didn’t know what they were doing. Palm Beach is not only a small town, it’s a burg that thrives on gossip, be it true, false, or so what? They say a secret whispered over lunch at Cafe L’Europe would be the topic of conversation at every dinner table along Ocean Boulevard that night.

Sabrina must be ready to kill both her daughter and Zack Ward. How long would it be before Appleton got wind of this, if he hadn’t already? With Cranston’s network of informants he probably was told what the pair were about after their first phone call to the press.

What had Cranston said? When people don’t know the truth, they speculate. With Gillian looking for exposure, rather than anonymity, they wouldn’t have to speculate long before hitting on the truth. The boys, I’m sure, were ready to kill Sabrina.

In fact the whole stinking mess had the M word written all over it. But who would take the fall, Gillian, Zack, Sabrina or Archy?

“Did you know the girl’s boyfriend was a news hound for a trashy tabloid? I thought you said they came down here to elope. Looks like they’re investigating something that happened before they were born.”

Lolly didn’t know how close those words came to telling him what he wanted to know.

“It’s what Sabrina told me,” I contended. “And she did mention the girl’s beau was in the writing business. But listen, Lol, I’ll call Sabrina and see if she’ll clue me into what’s going on and then I’ll report what I learn to you over dinner at Acquario.”

That gave him pause. “When?”

As soon as I get through to Sabrina. For all we know, Gillian’s boyfriend is down here on a busman’s holiday, doing research on an old Palm Beach scandal for his paper.”

“I don’t see why she won’t talk to you. Eric told me you two were quite chummy the other day.”

And another county is heard from. Just what I needed. “Who’s Eric?”

“The bartender you practically thrust upon me. You have great taste, Archy.”

If “The Man That Got Away’ were a musical composition, we would now be at what I believe is called the crescendo of the piece, with brass, strings, and percussions all at fever pitch. At the crash of the cymbals there would follow an eerie silence before the first soft notes of the next movement would commence. What the new movement would sound like depended upon the composer; for I was beginning to suspect that all that had transpired since Sabrina’s arrival on our shores was being cleverly orchestrated by a person or persons unknown.

After meeting with Sabrina, I had referred to her quandary as a plot outline. Wasn’t it uncanny that every dire consequence that outline begged was about to happen? It was as if someone were manipulating events based on Sabrina’s synopsis, beginning with Opus One, that anonymous call to Lolly Spindrift — the snowball that was on its way to becoming an avalanche.

Who would benefit if the spit hit the fan? Everyone except the fathers-in-waiting. Gillian would get a name both prominent and wealthy. Zack would get a story that could catapult him to fame and riches. Sabrina would get publicity, which she didn’t need, but to those who have it shall be added. Who knew the moment Sabrina had arrived in Palm Beach? Only the staff at the Chesterfield and Sabrina.

Was she truly writing the piece de resistance of her stalwart career and hanging around to see how the last chapter would play out? But Zack Ward was also a writer and didn’t Gillian dabble in the art? Like Phineas Taylor Barnum’s famous three-rings, there was so much going on at once, one didn’t know where to look first. It was like watching a disaster movie from a velour recliner while munching a Milky Way.

My appearance in Mrs. Trelawney’s office was met with rancor, not applause. “Where have you been, Archy; it’s after three?”

“Out buying a microwave oven, as ordered.”

“And where is it?”

“With its owner. I delivered it to Binky’s quarters.”

This did not sit well with the squire’s private secretary. “You were supposed to bring it here. The troops are gathering at four.”

“I know, Binky told me.” With that disclosure she scowled, which suited her mood. “Don’t worry, he’ll act surprised, he’s been practicing all day. And you know I don’t attend office functions.”

“I thought, with your father away, you would make an exception and take his place. Especially since Binky is your best friend.”

“Hobo is my best friend, Mrs. Trelawney, and the only reason my father shows up is because they all take place right here and he has to pass through to get to the executive loo.”

“Nonsense,” she chided. “When Evelyn Sharif had her baby your father gave her a year’s supply of Pampers. Wasn’t that thoughtful?”

I thought it was disgusting but kept it to myself and tried to look contrite as I placed my expense report on her desk.

“Didn’t I just sign one of these?” she protested.

“It’s been an exceptional week,” I explained.

“I hope the microwave oven is not included under “miscellaneous.” Gifts are not reimbursable.”

“It is not listed under miscellaneous, as you can see from the amount.”

It was listed under “supplies.” “And expenses, as you very well know, are my only means of support, thank you.”

“You could try something more honest, like robbing banks.”

“If that is all, Mrs. Trelawney, I will bid you adieu until we meet again in May.”

“May?”

“Yes. May it never happen.”

“You missed your calling, Archy. You should have gone on stage like your grandfather.” Without pausing to gloat she took an envelope from the top of her desk and removed its contents. “I’ve been trying to get you all day. This is addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Prescott McNally and Archibald McNally.” Adjusting her glasses she proceeded: “I hope you can join me for cocktails at Casa Gran tomorrow evening at seven. Very informal. R.S.V.P. regrets only. Hope to see you then. Sincerely, Harry Schuyler.””

“You’re jesting,” was all I could think to say.

“I am not. It came this morning, by hand if you please. Your father did some work for him a few years back and he’s always had his nose out of joint because Schuyler never invited him to Casa Gran and now this comes when he’s away. He’ll be furious.”

Still reeling from the invitation, I thought aloud, “But why me?”

Casa Gran was a Palm Beach showplace on a par with Mar-a-Lago. It was built by Harry’s grandmother in the 1930’s for a reputed ten million bucks depression bucks, that is. Multiply it by at least ten to arrive at today’s price tag. Grandma Schuyler’s father came by way of Detroit and mother via Chicago. It was said that no American could start their car or roast a weenie without giving Dolly Schuyler a buck.

In her prime, Dolly was a friendly competitor of Marjorie Merriweather Post, and it was said that she employed three complete serving staffs, on eight-hour shifts, to cater to the needs of Casa Gran’s residents and guests. If one had a yen for a ham sandwich and beer, or a steak dinner, at three in the morning, all one had to do was ring the kitchen. It was also said, sotto voce, that other needs were thoughtfully catered to at Casa Gran.

“I’ll just go powder my nose. Won’t be a minute.”

That exit line could account for at least a dozen chores milady was on her way to performing while her gentleman caller cooled his heels. When he took her home, if all went well, she would excuse herself with,

“I’ll just slip into something comfortable.” Or did that happen only in the movies?

I was cooling my heels in Bianca Courtney’s parlor on cement blocks, sipping a white wine that had never been within a mile of a cork. It was dreadful. Bianca did not keep hard liquor in the house, owing, no doubt, to her mother’s caution, “Candy is dandy, but liquor is quicker.”

I reflected sadly upon why I was sitting in a railroad car decorated in buttons and bows, boxed in by Al Rogoff’s sleeper and Binky Watrous’s caboose. Final answer: pure lust. Bianca’s idea of decor was to bring the outside inside. Every piece of fabric had a flower motif, many with birds and bees and butterflies, all on the wing. I would happily trade the wine for an antihistamine nasal spray.

Bianca had greeted me dressed in peach linen slacks and a blouse just a shade lighter. The blouse was of a material so gossamer that as she moved one caught glimpses of her bra. I found this distracting. The outfit, accesorized with a pair of finely crafted leather sandals and a tiny matching baguette bag, bespoke not only a casual chic, but expensive taste. If these trappings were due to the largesse of the late Lilian Ashman Gilbert, I could see why Bianca was incensed at the lady’s passing, but not a reason to point a finger at poor Mr.

Gilbert.

As you may have guessed I awoke late the following morning and Ursi surprised me with one of my breakfast favorites, kippers and scrambled eggs.

“Everyone is talking about Sabrina Wright and her daughter, Archy. Have you heard about it?” Ursi asked as she poured my coffee.

“I’ve heard something, Ursi. What are people saying

“It seems Sabrina Wright’s daughter, Gillian, and her boyfriend are down here looking up old society news stories at the library. Well, Mrs. Marsden over at Lady Cynthia’s says that Lady C thinks the daughter and her boyfriend must be looking for someone from these parts who was on the social scene some years back. And Hanna Ventura told Lady Cynthia that Sabrina adopted the girl, Gillian, as a single parent and raised her in the lap of luxury. Mrs. Ventura read about it in Vanity Fair, and she thinks the girl is looking for her true mother who may be someone we all know. There could be a scandal brewing, Archy, as we speak.”

Dear Hanna didn’t know how close she was to the truth. But with that kind of talk going around and the only other parent one could have was the father, Appleton and Cranston must be quivering in their limos.

In the interest of learning what other rumors were making the rounds, I queried, “So what else have you heard, Ursi?”

Jamie, as always, sipped his coffee while reading the morning paper and listening to every word. They say N. Bonaparte, Buonaparte, could also read and listen at the same time and look what they did to him. Would Jamie one day be exiled to Fisherman’s Island in Lake Worth?

“The girl’s boyfriend,” Ursi continued on pouring a cup for herself,

‘is a newspaper reporter, and he’s going to write about the investigation. You know many adopted people now go in search of their natural parents. It’s exciting. But if the girl’s natural mother put her up for adoption and signed away all rights, she wouldn’t know the girl had been taken in by a famous author. Won’t she be surprised, Archy?”

“That’s one way of putting it,” I said with a thoughtful nod.

Here Ursi confided, “Mrs. Marsden was wondering if Lady C is the natural mother. You know she’s had so many husbands and a few on the side, if you’ll excuse the expression.”

“You’re excused.”

“So Sabrina Wright didn’t come down here to stop her daughter from eloping, as she told you, Archy. She came to either help or hinder the girl’s search. That’s what Mr. Anderson told Simone.”

“Simone, Ursi?”

“She’s the Andersons’ upstairs girl,” Ursi said.

As noted, when you get enough people taking potshots at the same target someone is bound to hit the bull’s-eye. The only saving grace was that no one would know whose arrow had hit the mark. Apropos of nothing, did Mrs. Anderson know her husband kept Simone upstairs?

I stood, looking rather fit in a crisp cord suit from Chipp, pale green (I believe it is now known as celadon) button-down shirt with open collar and loafers. Must I say no socks? Socks with loafers in Palm Beach in July is just not done, like diamond tiaras at lunch or pinky rings on gentlemen. “I have to be on my way,” I told the couple.

“Don’t forget the folks will be home in a few days,” she reminded me.

“Doesn’t the time fly?”

I would be happy and relieved to have the lord and lady of our manor back. I especially missed mother and at this juncture would even welcome the advice and consent of father regarding the unenviable positions of Thomas Appleton and Richard Cranston. Or did I just long to retaliate and drop a few names over cocktails? And I had not forgotten my invitation to Casa Gran this evening. Oh, Prescott will be green with envy, rugging on his mustache and sending his one eyebrow toward the ceiling.

Jamie followed me out to our driveway and surmising he had something to add to the morning gossip, I paved the way with, “What do you hear, Jamie?” I asked because Jamie pioneered in don’t ask, don’t tell politics.

“Bit of a flap over at the Cranstons’ is what I hear.” With Jamie that could mean anything from a collapsed souffle to murder.

“Any details?” I encouraged.

“Seems Mr. Cranston sent his regrets to an invitation from the White House. Big social event. Dinner for fifty and then some guy was going to play the cello for the guests. Mrs. Cranston was furious and let him know it as well as everyone else in the house. She got so testy, Cook almost quit.”

This misbegotten affair was taking its toll on the natives. One got the feeling that everyone on the island was holding their breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop. The most disturbing fact to those concerned must be that there was nothing they could do about it, and frustration is a dangerous humor. Blow the whistle and the jig’s up.

Keeping quiet could get the same result. Sabrina, the paradigm of bargain makers, was the only one in a position to stop Gillian from her inane prying, but was having no success, it seemed. But did Sabrina truly want to stop her?

“Anyone know why Cranston turned down his old fraternity brother?”

Hobo joined us to eavesdrop. Jamie slipped him a treat and Hobo retreated back to his home. “Seems he doesn’t want to leave Palm Beach at the moment, is what the staff hears. Why, they don’t know.”

Neither does poor Mrs. Cranston, which accounted for her rage. With three unmarried daughters she couldn’t afford to turn down invitations where eligible bachelors roamed the range like bison. Ursi’s info was secondhand hearsay, while Jamie’s was straight to-the-point, fact. He wouldn’t think anything else was worth opening his mouth for. I slipped him a pourboire along with a thank-you and hopped in my Miata.

As I headed for the Palm Court I speculated upon how much longer this farce could go on before something gave. But what or who would give was the question. Did Appleton call Sabrina? Did Cranston? If so, had she agreed to see them? And what could she say other than she was sorry she told Gillian as much as she had and promise to stop her their? daughter from causing any more talk than she already had?

Could Sabrina do it twice, without cracking a smile? She could. But would it be enough? I was tempted to call her, but remained unyielding in my resolve to mind my own business and let the chips fall where they may, as long as they didn’t land on poor Archy’s head.

Why was I going to the Palm Court? Because little Miss Buttons and Bows had twisted my er arm until I agreed to see Antony Gilbert. I must say the girl was as subtle as a rattlesnake and just as mesmerizing. The younger generation is a many-splendored thing, let me tell you. Children in adult garb, they are both vampiric and satyric.

I should have sent her packing last night with a sound reprimand. I did not because I wanted to see just how far she would go to attain her goal. Not all the way, but not all that bad either. Did the end justify the means? Well, I’m on my way to do her bidding.

No stretch limos on my tail this morning, but Al Rogoff’s car was in its bay. Binky, of course, was at work. If Al didn’t happen to be looking out his window I’m sure Mrs. Brewster across the way would ring him up to announce that the red car was back without the stretch limo.

Bianca was out her door before I had a chance to close the Miata’s ignition. She came running to the car wearing white shorts and a man’s pink dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up and the tails hanging out.

She had her hair pulled back and tied with a white satin ribbon and a U

of Miami baseball cap on her head and sneakers on her feet. She looked so good she should be illegal.

“Do you think that’s the proper attire for our mission?” I asked as she got into the car.

“Relax, Archy, I dressed down to throw Tony off the scent. You know, casual. Hi, ‘bye, in, out. Let him guess what we’re doing.” She pulled the baseball cap on tighter as we picked up speed.

“Don’t worry, he’ll know what we’re doing there. I’m sure you didn’t hide your displeasure at the police for not carting him off in handcuffs. I hope he lets us in. He doesn’t have to, you know.”

“He’ll let us in. He likes Lolitas, which is really why I got myself gussied up like Betty Cheerleader.”

Her candor was amazing. “Did you enjoy our dinner date?” I questioned.

“Sure. Especially the dessert,” she answered.

“You mean the creme caramel?”

“If that’s what they’re calling it these days.”

“You are a vixen, missy, and I should take you over my knee.” I reconsidered in a split second and cautioned, “And don’t you dare say what you’re thinking.”

She laughed. “Oh, poor Archy. We had some fun last night and he’s on a guilt trip. Forget it. I have.”

That was unsettling. “I have a cocktail party this evening…”

“How jolly.”

“I repeat. I must attend a cocktail party this evening. Business, you know. But we could meet for dinner after. Say about eight.”

“Only if you take me to the Pelican Club.”

“I would rather not, Bianca.”

“Why, are you ashamed of me?”

“You know that’s not true. I was thinking of something a little more upscale, like Chez Jean-Pierre. Cassoulet, fresh Dover sole…”

“Creme caramel,” came her sharp tongue. Then, unable to contain herself she laughed that child’s laugh to let me know it was all a tease. “I am going to the Pelican tonight, Archy.”

“Not with me, you’re not,” I said.

“I know that, silly. I’m going with Binky. He called this morning and invited me.”

“Binky?” I exploded.

“Yes. What’s wrong with that? We’re going to look over his loot and then go to dinner. He’s a very nice guy, Archy, and he likes me.”

“I know he does, Bianca. Don’t trifle with him, please. He hurts easily.”

“So do I, Archy.”

ZAP! I had been put in my place and I didn’t like it but it was where I belonged. In a corner with the dunce cap on my pointed head. I had deluded myself into thinking she had fallen for the McNally charm.

Think again, Archy. She had been the seductress, going only as far as needed to get her way. If she was looking for romance she wanted to find it with someone who didn’t plan each date as if it were a mission impossible.

Could you blame her? If you have lost a boyfriend, both parents, and a magnanimous employer before you’ve hit the quarter-century mark, you build up your defenses and become very suspicious of someone like me and my microwave oven.

“This will not be Jean-Pierre’s lucky night,” I conceded.

“If you take your lady to the Pelican, we could make it a foursome.”

I would rather stick pins in my eyes.

She directed me to the Gilbert residence, which was on the Intercoastal down toward South Palm Beach.

A pink one-story villa, it lacked only matching flamingos on the lawn.

It screamed two million, give or take. The planting was old even if the money was new. The front door looked like the entrance to a harem den in an old Maria Montez movie. No one answered our ring. Good. We could go home.

“He must have fired Louisa,” Bianca said. “Let’s go ‘round back.”

A flagstone path led along the side of the house and to the rear yard.

It was a long walk, but pleasant, thanks to the carefully landscaped shrubbery, palms, and royal poincianas. We heard the splash of a diver, an eerie sound considering why we were there, before we turned the bend and came upon the rear patio and pool. The diver was now swimming, and a man I believed to be Antony Gilbert was seated at a wrought-iron and glass table in a white terry robe, balancing a cup and saucer in one hand and a cigarette in the other. It was a typical late-morning Palm Beach scene.

At the sight of Bianca and me he put down his coffee, rose, and came toward us. “Bianca, my dear. What a pleasure. It’s been too long.”

The British accent wasn’t bad as far as phony British accents go and Antony Gilbert wasn’t bad if you liked the phony British accent type. I could see him in a third-rate touring company of Noel Coward’s Private Lives. I have identified and studied two types of the male species who inhabit south Florida in packs I call The Fringe Set. You know the type the guys who are perpetually on the outside, hoping to get in.

First we have the Papa Hemingways. They are especially prevalent in the Keys. Bulky, past their prime, with grizzled beards and fishing caps, they drink only rum and sport a single golden earring and a ponytail. They lust after busty women in bikinis and are usually impotent.

Then there are the Gary Grants. Clean-cut, tall, slim, British accent of dubious origin, charming, and witty. They lust after rich women and are usually bisexual. I have already told you what side Tony Gilbert bats for.

“Hello, Tony,” Bianca said, all smiles. “This is my friend Archy McNally. He gave me a ride. You know how I hate to drive.”

Gilbert and I shook. “A pleasure, Archy. If I may?”

“You may, Tony.”

The swimmer did laps and if my eyes didn’t deceive me I would say it was a she in the pool. A long, slim, yet curvaceous she. Tony had certainly settled in since his loss.

In keeping with taking Gilbert by surprise, Bianca blurted, “Is Louisa not here?”

“No,” Gilbert said. “I’m afraid Louisa has left us. She was made an offer she couldn’t refuse and didn’t. I do the best I can, which is not very good, so if you have a dust allergy, Bianca dear, I suggest you keep out of the house.”

“No allergies, Tony, so I’ll just run in and take a peek at my old room. I’m missing a charm bracelet I think I left in the top dresser drawer. Won’t be a minute, Archy.”

Casa Gran.

There was a panel truck parked near the main gate bearing the logo of a local security service and two guards on duty. These were clearly not Schuyler’s regular sentries, so they must have been hired for the occasion. More proof that he had interrupted his summer holiday in Southampton on short notice to put together a cocktail party in July.

It made no sense but then Harry Schuyler always had more dollars than sense.

The car in front of my Miata was being stopped at the gate and as I came to a halt behind it I noticed it carried a bumper sticker that read TROY APPLETON, in a blaze of red, white, and blue. It was a harbinger to which I paid scant attention. What was left of my mind after a morning with Bianca Courtney was focused on the Sabrina Wright mess and the Kasbah the ridiculous and the sublime. Or did I get that backward?

The car ahead moved on and I moved up just as another car lined up behind me. For a quickie reception someone had done a good job of rallying the freeloaders. But then who would turn down an invitation to Casa Gran? The guard looked into the car and, satisfied that I wasn’t carrying an arsenal, waved me through the gate. No name check?

This shindig was about as exclusive as a BYOB hop at the Feela Betta Thigh sorority house. Many are called and many more show up. Prescott would not have been pleased.

Thanks to Mrs. Trelawney I had gotten into a blue suit to represent McNally amp; Son. For a touch of color I wore it with a tie of vermilion silk. That worked so well I placed a matching hankie in my breast pocket. Humming “I’ve Got to Be Me,” I hastened to Casa Gran at the appointed hour.

It was a good mile drive from the gate to the house on a gracefully winding road. The flora, reputed to be in the care of fifty gardeners under the supervision of a landscape architect, was breathtaking, to say the least. After the final curve Casa Gran appeared like a shimmering mirage rising out of the sea.

An amber marble palace sitting on twenty oceanfront acres with a spa and pool in the basement, another indoor pool on the second floor, another on the roof, and one out back, it also boasted tennis courts, both clay and grass courts, croquet, squash, and a baseball diamond for the kiddies. So much for the recreational facilities. The serious business of living was conducted in quarters larger than life.

Like playing follow-the-leader I pulled up to the port-cochere where one of several car jockeys opened the Miata’s door and handed me a numbered ticket as I got out. Up the stairs to a grand portal guarded by a guy in a tux who pointed that away while intoning, “Cocktails in the solarium, sir.” I was on a marble terrace, wider than many country roads, which appeared to girdle the entire house. There was now a group of us, couples and singles, on the march.

Where the terrace angled to follow the Casa Gran’s contours, the ocean came into view and my fellow travelers and I joined the party that spilled out of the solarium and onto the promenade. Waiters proffered trays of champagne and canapes, music came from nowhere, and the early evening air was alive with the tinkle of glasses and the hum of conversation. The sky over the Atlantic was growing dark and tiny white lights in trees and shrubs began to twinkle like diamonds. Hey, who knows, maybe they were diamonds.

The solarium and terrace were separated by a series of glass doors that created a wall when all were closed and a multitude of entrances when all were open, as they were for the party. I made my way through the pretty people and entering a vast room full of more pretty people I found myself at a political caucus for state senator Troy Appleton. For this I got a by-hand invitation? No way. There was something rotten in Casa Gran; that’s why Archy was sent for. I say this with pride, not scorn.

Troy Appleton and his wife stood in the center of the room receiving Harry Schuyler’s guests. Troy looked like Flash Gordon, all golden and smiling a million bucks worth of caps. His wife wore a chic ice-blue Paris frock that was so perfectly understated it told the world she had not only borrowed Jackie O’s hair, she had also latched on to Monsieur Givenchy. If Troy made it to Washington she would have to find herself an American couturier. I wondered if she thought Troy’s aspirations worth the compromise.

Next to the smiling couple was Troy’s dad, Thomas Appleton. Our eyes locked on each other from across the room and poor Tom reacted as if he’d just seen a ghost. He actually blinked before he forced himself to break the visual contact. Tom Appleton was not happy to see me, therefore he had not insisted on my presence. I got in line, grabbing a dollop of caviar on a sliver of toast from a passing waiter. It was the real thing.

“Hello. Glad you could make it.” Troy Appleton greeted me with a smile that must by now be hurting his face, and a handshake that attested to his prowess on a polo pony.

I’m Archy McNally.”

“Nice to know you, Archy. May I present my wife, Virginia.”

Virginia gave me her hand, which was small and soft and warm. We touched fingers. “How do you do,” Virginia said. “I like your tie and pocket square, Mr. McNally. So original.”

“Thank you, ma’am. You are most kind.”

And my father, Tom Appleton,” Troy continued his introductions.

Tom and I shook hands. “How nice to meet you, sir,” I said as if I had never laid eyes on the man before this moment.

Looking relieved, Tom said, “Same here, I’m sure. Please help yourself to a drink. If champagne is not your thing there’s a proper bar someplace in this mausoleum.”

“I will. Best of luck to you, Troy. You have my vote.”

“Well,” he said modestly, ‘it hasn’t come to that yet. We’re still testing the waters.”

Was this a fund-raiser? Was I expected to write a check? Sorry, pal, I spent it all on a microwave oven and dinner for two at Charley’s Crab. And the idea of giving this crowd money was obscene.

“Jump in,” I counseled. “He who hesitates is lost.”

“I’ll remember that,” Troy said as he stuck his hand out to the guy behind me. “Hello. Glad you could make it.”

The music came from two lovely ladies playing piano and flute. I made my way to where they were giving away the hard stuff and ordered a vodka martini with a twist. There were three bartenders in black tie to serve what looked like a stag line at the makeshift bar. When I turned to go in search of caviar and other edibles I found my way blocked by a man in blazer and ascot.

“Archy McNally?” My host asked.

Harry Schuyler looked like his own grandpa. The years had not been kind, but why should they have been? He had drained every ounce of life out of each one, leaving nothing in reserve. Life on Ocean Boulevard and Gin Lane had taken their toll. His hair was thinning, his face was lined, and he stooped in the manner of old men far too thin for their height.

“It is, sir. Thank you for the invitation.”

He was holding a glass filled with sparkling water. Were it spiked, it was with something of the colorless variety. “Your father handled some business for me awhile back,” Schuyler said. “I understand he’s out of town.”

“On a cruise with mother. Not the best time of year to sail in the Caribbean, but it’s the only time he can get away. He will be disappointed to have missed the party.”

“Nice of you to say so, but I doubt it’s true. This is not my affair, as you can plainly see. It’s a fund-raiser for young Troy by the way, you don’t have to ante up just because you came.”

“I have no intention of doing so, sir.”

“Smart boy. As I was saying, it’s not my gathering, not at all. Tommy Appleton called me up north and asked if he could use Casa Gran for the happening. The old ark has a certain cachet, as I’m sure you know, and it’s been used for far less worthy causes. Tommy and I were at Saint Paul’s together, so what the hell.

“As it turned out it worked to my advantage. I wanted an excuse to get back here without people wondering why, and this was my ticket.” He concluded by taking a long swig of his drink.

I sipped mine. It was one hell of a martini. The bartenders must have been told to pour liberally to get the folks in a giving mood. “Then you invited me so we could meet accidently on purpose.”

“You don’t waste words or time, Mr. McNally, and that’s just what I want. When doing business I am a man of few words, and presently I am very short of time. I’ve heard good things about you and they are justified.” He took another swig.

I’m at your service, Mr. Schuyler,” I volunteered.

“Have you seen our roof garden?” he asked.

“Only in Town and Country and Architectural Digest. This is my first visit to Casa Gran.”

“Is that a martini you’ve got there?”

“It is, sir.”

He flagged the bartender and ordered another. “Don’t rush. I’ll leave mine, which is just designer water, and carry your spare. Now follow me.”

He led me out of the solarium and into a room twice as big with a vaulted ceiling trimmed in gold leaf. It was furnished with a resplendent array of Queen Anne and Chippendale pieces of museum quality, as the merchants along Antique Row in West Palm describe their wares. “The Grand Salon of Casa Gran,” Schuyler lectured, sounding like a tour guide. “The proportions and ceiling are exact replicas of the great room in Catherine’s Palace at Tsarskoye Selo. Nana Dolly was mad for the Romanovs. They say the furniture rivals Winterthur.”

It was stunning, and about as warm and inviting as an igloo. Where did nana Dolly kick off her shoes and kick up her heels? He opened another door and, for a change, we stepped into a small room. It was the elevator. A press of the button and we rose. The panel indicated four levels: B, 1, 2, 3. We entered on 1 and ascended to 3. Schuyler opened the door, stepped out ahead of me, and magically lit up the scene. Did I say ascended? Right to heaven.

The pool, lit in a rainbow of colors, was the centerpiece. Surrounding it were more reminders of the landscape architect and his minions.

Flowering trees, indigenous shrubs, and formal mini-gardens all theatrically illuminated. Replicas of Greek and Italian sculptures in marble looked down at us from their pedestals, most notably David, whose appendage was more in keeping with the gigantic original than this far smaller reproduction. Seeing my gaze, Schuyler remarked,

“Nana Dolly had a sense of humor.”

It was now dark, the sky had turned on its own twinklers and floodlights highlighted the beach below us and the eternal motion of the surf. The party had now spread out to the sandy terrain. “There are no words,” I said. “There really are no words.”

Indicating a marble bench, Schuyler sat and I joined him. “I grew up here and it still impresses me. Drink up, Mr. McNally, or I’ll devour your spare and hasten my end.”

That was the second time he had alluded to his poor health. “You can’t take the hooch, sir?”

“Oh, I can take it all right, but it would only beg the inevitable and there is something I want to do before I depart this mortal coil,” he waved my spare across his princely domain. “Like attend my son’s wedding in September.

“I have about six months to live, Mr. McNally. A year at the most. It seems my liver isn’t in the best of shape. I’m in no condition to withstand a transplant, should one become available, which is just as well. I would only mistreat that one, too. So, time is of the essence, son.”

“For what, Mr. Schuyler?”

“For stopping Sabrina Wright’s daughter from adding an addendum to my obit.”

Surely I had heard wrong. The height and heady atmosphere must have clogged my ears. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Schuyler. You said…”

“I told you I was a man of few words and believed you were, too. I know Sabrina came down here and hired you. I got wind of it in Southampton the day after Spindrift ran his blind item.”

That blind item. Would it never rest in peace? “She did hire me, sir, for one day. She is no longer a client, nor are we in touch. Can I know your interest in Sabrina Wright and her daughter?”

Ignoring my question, he bragged, “My son is a fine young man and he’s going to be a great research scientist, though God knows how he got that way coming from Linda and me. The boy is about to marry a lovely young lady in the same profession. Thanks to him I have been on the straight and narrow for several years and I intend to stay that way until they plant me. I will not have their wedding sullied by another scandal about his old man. I will not.”

His voice shook and his hands trembled. I finished my martini and reached for my spare before it became a puddle. “Please don’t excite yourself, sir. I’m sure it won’t help your liver, or your situation, whatever that may be. Sabrina Wright hired me to find her husband who came down here looking for her daughter. It’s a little confusing, I know, but it’s the truth. I found him, or rather he found me, and that was the end of my association with Ms Wright.”

“I don’t believe you,” he stated.

“You may believe what you wish, Mr. Schuyler, but that’s the truth.”

“As far as it goes, I’m sure.” He put down my empty glass and ran a hand through what was left of his hair. The guy was in a bad way and so was Archy. What was going on here?

“The girl and her friend, a reporter they say, are snooping around old newspaper stories.” Schuyler repeated the scuttlebutt I had gotten from Ursi over my kippers and eggs. “Social items, if the gossips are right. There are those who believe she’s looking for her natural mother. Thanks to some magazine article, the world knows Sabrina adopted the girl.”

“I know this,” I admitted cautiously.

“It’s all bull because Sabrina is her natural mother. I know that for a fact,” he ranted. “So who is the girl looking for? Her father, who else? And why is she looking here? Because someone gave her a lead and the only person who could give her a lead was her mother.”

Here’s where I came in, I thought, but it wasn’t a film and I couldn’t leave. I told myself this wasn’t happening and didn’t believe me. I drank from my spare. “What is your interest in this, sir?” I held my breath and waited.

“I told you I don’t have the luxury of time, so I’ll come right to the point. I’m the girl’s father.”

My flabber was ruptured. My synapses ceased to synapse. Another contender had just entered the ring. Thirty years ago Sabrina Wright had come down to Ft Lauderdale for spring break and had screwed Tom, Dick, and Harry literally as well as figuratively. What a remarkable woman.

The sounds of the night floated upward like incense rising from the High Priest’s censer the rumble of the surf, the peal of genteel laughter, the strains of cocktail music. Perhaps, if I counted to ten backward, I would wake up in my garret repeating, There is no place like home, there is no place like…

“Did you hear me, Mr. McNally?”

“I think you said you are Gillian’s father.”

“You think right.”

He told me the story of the young, the bad, and the beautiful on spring break in Ft Lauderdale three decades ago. It loses its punch the third time around. Fourth, if you included the lady’s version. I wasn’t listening. I was thinking of Tom downstairs, wondering what the hell I was doing here. Had he seen Harry leading me out of the solarium?

These old school chums were completely unaware that they were competing for the same title along with Dickey Cranston.

Schuyler ended with, “Can you help me?”

“Help you? How?”

“Get Sabrina to pack up, go home, and take her daughter and the reporter with her.”

“Why me, Mr. Schuyler?”

“Because you know her. She contacted you for whatever reason the moment she got here. Who else but you?”

“Trust me,” I said. “Sabrina wants to do exactly as you wish.”

“So you do know more than you’re saying,” he charged.

“I do, sir, but I could not reveal what I know until I knew what you knew. Client confidentiality.”

“Good. I’m a client and don’t you forget it. If you breathe a word of this, I’ll kill you, and if you think I’m joking, try me. All I could get is life or the chair, ain’t that a laugh?”

Yes, it was very funny, indeed. There were now three men in Palm Beach poised to do me in, and let us not forget dear Consuela and her long knife should she learn of my coitus interruptus episode outside Charley’s Crab. Who says you can never be too popular?

I read Schuyler my set piece. The one I deliver to all of Gillian’s fathers. “So you see, sir, Sabrina came down here purposely to stop Gillian from learning the truth.”

“Why the hell did she tell the girl she wasn’t really adopted? It was a fool thing to do. I paid her a fortune to forget she ever knew me. I had survived one paternity suit and didn’t want to face another. My father would have killed me,” Schuyler griped.

I was trying to calculate how much Sabrina had walked off with three times. “But she didn’t name anyone,” I reminded him. “She didn’t break the bargain.”

“And she told you,” he fumed.

“But she didn’t name names. If you hadn’t.. ”

“Okay,” he said, not liking the implication. “I had no choice. I need someone to talk to Sabrina and tell me what’s going on. I want to know how close the girl is getting, and I’m hiring you for the job.”

“Why don’t you call Sabrina?” I suggested.

“I did.”

“And?”

“She agreed to meet with me.”

So Harry had called. Again I wondered if Tom and Dick had, too. “So why do you need me, Mr. Schuyler?”

“Quite frankly, because I don’t trust her. I want a spy in her camp.”

“I’m not in her camp, sir.”

“You have entry, Mr. McNally.”

I said I was going to keep out of this, but thanks to that chance I took when I told Ursi and Jamie about my meeting with Sabrina, everyone in town knew the author and I had a working relationship. Of course, the most problematic folks on my list were the three kings she had bilked out of a fortune. I took a chance and look at the hand I drew.

Three kings, a queen, and yrs. truly, the joker.

Right there I decided it would be in my best interest to join the game and declare jokers wild. I would call Sabrina. First, to warn her of just how desperate her three old paramours were and to tell her to get them off my back. Also, I wanted to hear what the lady had to say in her defense. Plenty, I was sure. I would also bill Harry for my time and perhaps Tom and Dick, too. I had nothing to lose but my life.

“I’ll see what I can do, Mr. Schuyler,” I told him, not without some misgivings.

“I wish I could say that makes me feel better, but it doesn’t,” he said with a show of no confidence. “In my condition I guess I never will.”

“I’m sorry about your poor health, sir.”

“So am I,” he said standing. “Shall we go below? You look like you could use a drink.”

We were both carrying empty cocktail glasses as we walked to the elevator. Mine and mine. Just before Schuyler put out the lights I thought I saw David wink at me. Cheeky guy.

The party was in full swing. We deposited our empties on the bar, but before I could get a refill there was a stir of excitement in the crowded room at the arrival of two new guests.

“Oh, it’s Dickey Cranston and Ginny,” Schuyler said. “He was at Saint Paul’s with Tommy and me. Good of him to come. He and Troy are not on the same team. Different parties, you know. Would you like to meet him?”

“I don’t think so, sir. I’d rather scram before they pass the alms plate.”

“Nonsense, it’ll only take a minute. Dickey is going to be an ambassador or something. Big deal.”

Schuyler dragged me into the lion’s den, and at the sight of me Dickey Cranston almost keeled over. I hate having this effect on people; it bruises the ego. The crowd made way for Harry Schuyler as they must have all his life, and we had no trouble penetrating the groupies surrounding Cranston. Schuyler made the introduction, and Cranston shook my hand like I was Typhoid Mary. Suzanne was at the moment showing off her Chanel suit to Virginia Appleton.

“Pleased to meet you,” Cranston lied. “Are you a political enthusiast, Mr. McNally?”

“No, sir. My father was the invited guest and I’m here in his place.”

“That’s right,” Schuyler mumbled. “Prescott McNally did some work for me awhile back and I may need his help again.”

Unable to resist, Tom Appleton left his son, the Givenchy, and the Chanel to join us. “Good of you to come, Dickey,” he said to Cranston while looking at me. “I guess we can’t count on your vote. What’s your party affiliation, Mr. McNally?”

My para-was so — noid I wanted only to run out of the room and into the ocean, never to return. I was at Casa Gran, surrounded by three social-register heavyweights, all giving me the fisheye like the motel clerk who knows damn well you’re not Mr. and Mrs. Smith. Looking at them side by side was like playing the old shell game. Which one contained the pea? These three fools all believed they did.

“I’m an independent, sir,” I told him. “But I promised your son my vote and I will keep it.”

“Mr. McNally is my guest, Tommy!” Schuyler explained. “Lawyer business.”

“I didn’t know you were a lawyer, Mr. McNally,” Appleton said.

“I’m not, but my father is,” I answered. This was followed by an oppressive pause. Appleton and Cranston glared at me. Schuyler looked wistfully at the passing trays of champagne. I smiled in search of sympathy and got skunked for my efforts. It was time for Archy to do the right thing and get out of these guys’ lives while I still had mine.

“I must be going, gentlemen. It’s been a pleasure. Best of luck to your son, Mr. Appleton, and to you, Mr. Cranston, on your appointment.” To Harry Schuyler I said, “I’ll be in touch.”

None of them offered a parting hand.

I could feel their eyes boring into my back as I made my exit. These three not-so-wise guys had broken the cardinal rule of survival: When in doubt, keep your mouth shut. Upon reading that now infamous blind item in Lolly’s column they panicked and blabbed. Trouble was, they blabbed to me which made me as inconvenient as Sabrina and her daughter. Schuyler thought he was speaking metaphorically when he placed me in Sabrina’s camp, but the statement was more fact than fancy. That I had been shanghaied made no difference to the enemy.

I rationalized that if any of these three former classmates were going to take drastic action to keep their secret a secret they would have to do it with their own hand. Out of necessity a hit man would have to go the way of his victim and then you’re dealing with a box of facial tissues pull out one and up pops another.

Of the three, which would be the most likely to act foolishly? My vote went to Cranston. He had the most to lose and, like all ambitious men, I believed he could be ruthless when it came to getting what he wanted.

That day in his limo he had referred to Sabrina being as reliable as a campaign promise. This told you something about his political integrity. And he had a temper. “Don’t ever get wise with me. You tell me what I want to know or…” I never did hear the end of that threat but I have a lively imagination.

The Leopard Lounge afforded me a chance to don khakis and a safari jacket I had purchased from Abercrombie amp; Fitch before they broke camp on Madison Avenue. I eschewed my pith helmet on the grounds that the jacket said it all and wore instead a more serviceable waterproof tan porkpie.

Sabrina came dressed as a celebrity incognito. Kerchief, enormous dark glasses, and a Burberry trench. Consequently, she was instantly recognized by the lounge lizards. “Did you expect to shoot a leopard, Mr. McNally?” she said as she joined me.

In spite of the flippancy it was clear that the events of the past week had left their mark on the lady. She wore no makeup. Her mouth was drawn, her flawless complexion pallid, and when she removed the glasses I could detect fine lines around those dark eyes, which seemed to have lost their luster. Gone, too, were the theatrical trappings that had so impressed me at our first meeting. The Pink Lady became a Bloody Mary and the exotic black-tipped cigarette was replaced with a Marlboro sans the foot-long onyx holder.

The lady was here on business and she lost no time in getting down to the nitty-gritty. “So you know,” she said when we were served our tomato and vodka.

“More than I care to,” I answered.

“This mess is a result of my hiring you, isn’t it?”

“I beg your pardon, Ms Wright, but this mess is a result of you baring your soul to your daughter and her determination to come down here looking for her father.”

“But had I not contacted you, no one would know what Gillian is up to.”

I didn’t like the accusation and set the record straight. “The wheels were set in motion before I met you. The day before, to be exact. That line in Lolly Spindrift’s column saying you were down here looking for the man that got away was the catalyst. I even suspected you of giving Lolly the lead.”

She inhaled deeply and when she exhaled I sneaked a whiff and checked one of the many safari jacket pockets for my English Ovals. I had left them at home. Her Marlboros lay on the table like a temptress in church but, like a good acolyte, I ignored them.

“Me?” she cried. “Why would I do such a foolish thing?”

“I honestly don’t know. It just seemed to me that everything that could go wrong went wrong from the moment you got here. I was looking for the director and your name came up. Who else knew you had arrived at this hotel when you did and asked for your husband?”

“My travel agent in New York knew when I was arriving, and so did everyone at the hotel who saw me arrive and heard me ask for Mr.

Silvester. Let me assure you, I did not make that call. I came down here to prevent what is happening, not encourage it.” Venting her frustration, she extinguished her cigarette with a series of rapid jabs at the ashtray. “The last time we spoke I asked you why Tom Appleton had thought to call you and you refused to tell me. Will you now?”

“First, tell me how you knew it was Appleton. I never mentioned his name.”

With an annoying wave of her hand she said, “Because he was the first to call me and he told me he had just spoken to you.”

“Have they all contacted you?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“And have you seen them?”

Two down and one to go.”

“Which one?” I prompted.

“None of your business, Mr. McNally.”

I had talked to Harry Schuyler last night. He admitted calling Sabrina and said she had agreed to meet him. I suddenly realized the ambiguity of the disclosure. It could mean they had yet to meet or had already done so. I had never thought to ask him so now I could not name the single holdout by the process of elimination. Sabrina made no mention of Harry’s physical condition and I did not volunteer the information. The guy had a right to confide or not to confide in whom he pleased.

So who was it? On that rainy afternoon in the trendy Leopard Lounge it was all a silly guessing game and one I was weary of playing.

“Okay,” I said. “I had no idea how to go about finding your husband, so I passed the word around that I was working on your behalf to locate your daughter. I said you wanted to prevent Gillian from eloping with a guy you had no use for. I figured anyone who knew anything about Gillian or Silvester might get in touch with me.”

“And they did, didn’t they?” she laughed. Amazing, but the lady never lost her sense of humor. It was an enviable trait.

“First there was the item in Lolly’s column which had all your former flames believing you were after them. When I got into the picture they contacted me to find out if it was true.”

“The fools,” she uttered with contempt.

“Yes, weren’t they? But they were very frightened, Ms Wright, and they still are. I told them as much as I knew because there was no reason not to, but I made a point of saying you were here to stop Gillian and that you were determined to keep your half of the bargain. But I must say, Ms Wright, by the time I got to Harry I was astounded. I trust there are no more.”

“Thank you for speaking on my behalf, Mr. McNally, and there are no more, take my word for it.”

The waiter was suddenly hovering over us and not until then did I notice Sabrina had made short work of her drink. “We’ll have two more,” I ordered.

Sabrina picked up the pack of cigarettes and offered one to me. I refused but only after a moment’s hesitation. I struck a match and held it for her. “They are very desperate men, Ms Wright.”

“And thirty years ago I was a very desperate young girl from Brooklyn who came down here on spring break looking for a rich husband. Are you shocked?”

“Hardly. This town is full of young women, and young men, aiming for the same thing. Most of them, like you, miss the mark.”

“Miss? I don’t know about that, Mr. McNally. Three shots in the dark and one direct hit ain’t bad where I come from.” She let out that throaty laugh, and what could I do but join in? Sabrina Wright might be down, but she wasn’t out.

“I’ll admit I spread myself rather thin, but when you get the nod from an Appleton, a Cranston, and a Schuyler, you don’t say no. And how those boys flaunted their pedigree and their wealth. Me, me, me, my, my, my, and I, I, I, was the extent of their conversation, but as Larry Hart said, horizontally speaking, they were at their very best. Would you believe it was once around the block for each of them?”

“I believe you, Ms Wright, because there’s an ancient Chinese saying that reminds us that it takes many nails to construct a crib, and one screw to fill it.”

The waiter brought our seconds and Sabrina saluted my retort. “I must remember that one,” she said. “Well, they all made plans to see me again in New York, and each called when he got there. By then I knew I was in the family way, as we used to say in Brooklyn, and passed on the news to my ardent suitors, who suddenly went limp at the news. Pardon the pun.”

“Did you know who the father was?”

She shook her head. “No. How could I? And I still don’t, nor do I care to know. Those bastards all told me they could arrange for a doctor, all expenses paid, and a few bucks for my trouble. I told them it was against my religion. One by one they said I could do as I pleased, but they wanted no part of their own child. They made it very clear that I wasn’t the kind nice young men married. And that, Mr.

McNally, was their undoing. I owed them nothing and they owed me an apology which I proceeded to extract in the only words they understood cold cash.”

She went on to explain how she had cunningly plotted her revenge, dealing with each of the men individually without their ever knowing they were part of a trio.

“These are smart guys,” I said, ‘with family lawyers by the dozens. How did you manage it?”

She sipped and puffed before answering with a smile. “I showed them my birth certificate, Mr. McNally.”

“You did what?”

“Can’t you guess? The spring break was in April. I was eighteen in September of that year. I believe it’s called statutory rape and my heroes had no desire to join the ranks of Charlie Chaplin and Errol Flynn. Oh, the boys did go running to the family lawyers and I got my apology, in spades. The end.”

What a story, and what a woman. “But it’s not the end,” I said. “When men like these make a deal, especially one that puts them on the paying end, they don’t like being crossed. I spoke to all of them and I didn’t like what they had to say. They are angry with you for telling Gillian the truth.”

“Only a part of the truth,” she insisted.

“Enough to get the wind up. What did you tell them, may I ask?”

Another cigarette, hardly smoked, bit the dust. “I told them to go climb the family tree and leave the daughter they wanted to terminate to me. That’s what I told them.”

And that’s what I had feared. “Easy, Ms Wright. I don’t like these guys any more than you do but they are not to be trifled with. They will go to any length to prevent this mess from going public, and they all have good reasons for doing so. Zack Ward’s occupation, by the way, makes them very nervous.”

My caution had her fuming, which put color on her alabaster cheeks. “I know all about their political expectations and their lovely children.

In thirty years, they haven’t changed one iota. Still worried about the family name. Sill crying, me, me, me, my, my, my, and I, I, I. The nerve. The unmitigated nerve.

“Docile Tom runs to New York every chance he gets. You know why, Mr.

McNally? Because he keeps a young lady in a smart apartment on Central Park South. She’s younger than his son. When Dick disappears for a few weeks on business he’s at a posh rehab spa, drying out. Harry couldn’t marry me, but he ended up tying the knot with a lesbian, a nympho, and a tramp. Don’t trifle with them? I’ll step all over them, Mr. McNally.”

I again advised restraint. “It makes no sense to bait them.

Concentrate on getting Gillian and Zack out of Palm Beach no wiser than when they arrived. Harry’s son will be married in a few months, Troy Appleton will know his political future by then, and Cranston will get his appointment. It will take the heat off everyone for a spell and perhaps calmer heads will prevail.”

“Don’t think I’m not trying to do just that. I told you I had offered Zack an interview if he could talk Gillian into giving up the search and going home. He’s very interested. I even took them all out the other evening for a start.”

“So I heard. The Club Colette.”

“Does nothing in this town go unnoticed, Mr. McNally?”

“No, ma’am. The spring break trio will know about this meeting before it’s over.”

She shrugged as if it made no difference at this point. “I am so tired,” she moaned. “I have spent all my life planning and plotting and scheming and working at that damn word processor until my eyes cross to keep my family living in luxury, and what do I get in return?

Crap, that’s what. Ungrateful pups. Now I have to give an interview to a tabloid I wouldn’t use to wipe my feet on to get Gillian to do what I ask. I am tired, Mr. McNally. Very, very tired.”

“Perhaps if you treated them with a little more respect and understanding,” I ventured warily, ‘they would respond in kind.”

She gave me a vacant stare and spoke as if by rote. “Understanding, you say? Gillian falls in love with any man who looks at her twice.

It’s clear what they’re after. Her legacy. Do you think I enjoy playing the party pooper? Well, I don’t, but I must. Robert is always short of cash and long on places to go, like expensive men’s boutiques, cocktail parties, and topless bars. I am the guy who keeps the show on the road and the actors from bumping into the scenery. Now if you don’t mind, doctor, I will get up off the couch and head home. I’m seeing one of Gillian’s fathers tonight. The last of the Mohegans.”

With Sabrina Wright, if at first you don’t succeed, give up. I reached for her cigarettes and helped myself to one. I deserved it. “Do you know, Ms Wright, you are named after an ancient Roman river?”

Tunny, I thought I was named after an Audrey Hepburn movie.”

“Au cont mire Before there was Audrey Hepburn there was the river Severn.”

For my last dinner with Ursi and Jamie in the family kitchen I took more care with my attire than I had been doing since being orphaned.

Casual elegance was the goal. Too formal would put a damper on the party and too relaxed would be rude. Taupe gabardine slacks, a plummy silk jacket over a blue chambray shirt, and black patent-leather gentleman’s pumps. A look in the glass confirmed that a picture is worth a thousand words.

I was delighted to see that Ursi and Jamie had also taken extra care with their apparel, although both would deny that they had done any such thing. Jamie was in summer flannels with a matching jacket, and I could see a print dress beneath Ursi’s apron.

We greeted each other a bit sheepishly before I went into the den and returned with three martinis on a tray. Ursi giggled; Jamie nodded appreciatively and Archy passed out the silver bullets. To us,” I toasted. One sip and we were laughing at our own maladroit behavior.

Reverting to business as usual we plunged into gossip, the homecoming, and Ursi’s feast.

For our last supper, so to speak, Ursi had prepared and now served what I have long considered to be the quintessence of gastronomic delights.

A Caesar salad, a la Ursi only the tender est inner leaves of the romaine lettuce steak au poivre, garlic mashed potatoes, stuffed mushrooms, and tiny green peas in butter.

The steaks had been rubbed with crushed peppercorns, wrapped in paper, and left for hours, allowing the meat to absorb all the peppery flavor.

Minutes before serving them Ursi sauteed the prime cuts in a mixture of hot oil and butter until they were charred on the outside and succulently rare within.

When the steaks were removed from the pan Ursi quickly added butter, shallots, and cognac to the remaining juices to create a sauce for the banquet. Sumptuous is an understatement and you could cut Ursi’s steak au poivre with a fork.

I kept my promise and poured a fine Bordeaux St. fimilion, remembering to thank father for leaving me the key to the wine cellar. Dessert was a strawberry chantilly with Bavarian cream.

Leave home? Sure. When elephants roost in trees.

The phone woke me. Trouble. I knew by the insistent urgency of the ring, which was as jarring as chalk on a blackboard. Besides, no one in Palm Beach would dream of calling on Sunday before noon.

When I heard Al Rogoff’s voice I honestly thought Binky had mangled himself with his new electric mixer. “Sorry to wake you, Archy,” Al began.

“Not at all, Al. I was just dressing for church.”

“You still working for Sabrina Wright?” he asked.

“No. We formally terminated our working relationship yesterday.

Why?”

“Someone terminated the lady last night.”

I was in my pajama tops, the only half I ever wear, and felt an icy draft attack my lower extremities. “Come again, Al.”

“You heard me,” he said.

“Where? When?”

“In her rented car. Last night about ten, as far as we can determine.”

I jumped on that. “Her car? An accident?”

“No, Archy. Someone put a bullet in her head.”

Amazing how calmly Al Rogoff could deliver such news. It must go with the territory. Murder always got me where I lived and, come to think of it, it got the victim in the same place. Sabrina gone. Still half awake, I wondered If I was dreaming the whole thing. Like the guy who’s stopped for passing a red light and telling the officer, “I saw it, sir, but I did not perceive it.” I heard it but I hadn’t as yet grasped it. I could see her face; laughing, seething, cajoling. I visualized her dictating to those she professed to love and ruled like a despot. I heard her telling the three contenders to ‘go climb the family tree.” Brash, brazen, and foolish Sabrina. Did her sense of humor fail her in the end, or did she enrage her assailant with, “Do you expect to shoot a leopard, Mr.. ”

“The palace is in an uproar,” I heard Al say. A visiting celebrity gunned down on our turf. The press is here from Miami, Tallahassee, and Atlanta. We hear the boys from New York have touched down in Fort Lauderdale and the rest are arriving at any airport in the state they could book a flight to without having to wait more than five minutes to board.”

“Where are you now, Al?”

“In my car on the cell phone. I just got off duty. This call is a warning, Archy. You’re going to be questioned, you know that.”

I knew it. I also know I could narrow the investigation down to three names, all of which would make headlines in every capital of the western world and especially in our very own. I stood there, bottomless, shivering at the thought of the awesome power I possessed.

Until yesterday Sabrina and I held the fate of those three men in the palm of our hands. Now there was only one hand left holding the bag.

I had to think and I needed the time in which to do it. Time was at a premium and right now I couldn’t parse a sentence in a first-grade reader. “Al, this is important. I need to know the facts. Can we rendezvous in our office in an hour? I won’t keep you long and then you can go home and get some sleep.”

“Don’t worry about me, Archy. I got a few hours off to shower and change my socks. All hands on deck until further notice. You’re on in one hour and don’t dawdle over your wardrobe. Come as you are.”

“If I did, Al, you’d arrest me.”

“Cute, Archy, cute.”

I put the phone down and it rang immediately. I didn’t have the time but I couldn’t afford not to know who wanted me. “Archy here.”

“Lolly here. Have you heard?”

“I’ve heard, Lolly, but I don’t have time to discuss it. Maybe later.”

“Every network reported it and CNN is carrying it as a news-breaking story. There goes my exclusive,” he moaned.

A thousand-watt bulb exploded in my head. “Ain’t it a bitch, Lol? She had agreed to meet with you tonight in her suite at The Breakers.”

“I believe you, Archy, because deep down I’m in love with you. I have a penchant for losers.”

“It’s nice to be loved, Lol. Now I have to go.”

“Any idea who done it, and why? They say it’s linked to her daughter’s raking up the past. I heard the police are going to commandeer all the old newspapers she was thumbing through as soon as the library opens tomorrow morning. I imagine they’ll want to question all the newspaper editors she called and you, too, I’m sure.”

The big three were hearing the same rumors and quaking. Did the fool who did it realize he had cut off his nose? Did the other two think a kind benefactor had interceded on their behalf? Or was it a conspiracy? Could the old school buddies have sat down at Casa Gran after the guests had left and exchanged notes? Was I losing it? I was.

“I know as much about this as you do, Lol, but if I hear anything you’ll be the first to know. Now I have to go.”

I hung up before he could respond. I showered, brushing my pear lies under the spray to save time, shaved, nicked my chin, doused my face with witch hazel, got into a pair of briefs, jeans, last night’s chambray shirt, and sneakers.

The phone rang. Archy here, and I can’t talk.”

“Have you heard?” It was Connie. “It’s all over the TV. The local station has a camera outside the police station. I saw Al Rogoff coming out. What do you know?”

“No time now, Connie. I have to meet Al in twenty minutes. I’ll be in touch. Will you be at home?”

“Only if a beautiful knight in shiny armor doesn’t carry me off to Camelot.”

“Fine. You’ll be home.”

In the kitchen Ursi was all atwitter as Jamie calmly perused his morning paper. Not even Walt Disney could animate the guy.

“I’ve heard, Ursi, so don’t ask. I haven’t got the time.” She handed me a glass of juice which I downed gratefully and I poured myself a cup pa adding only milk.

“It’s on the radio and the TV, Archy, but the newspaper doesn’t have it as yet.” On cue, Jamie raised the morning paper to show me the headline and confirm his wife’s words. “It happened late last night, they say. What a tragedy. As I was saying to Jamie just the other day, Archy, this town isn’t what it used to be. Time was when we never locked a door. Now you can’t go for a drive without fearing for your life. They say her next book was going to be an expose about an old Palm Beach family, that’s why she was done in. Her daughter and the boyfriend were doing the research, everyone knows that.”

Strange the things that pop up in one’s head when under stress. The rumors making the rounds of our island had me thinking of a line from Browning’s My Last Duchess “Here you miss, Or there exceed the mark.”

The execution of Sabrina Wright brought to mind the cruel duke’s response to his wife’s effervescent charm”I gave commands; Then all smiles stopped…”

“Are you going to Fort Lauderdale dressed like that, Archy?”

“Sorry, Ursi, but I’m not coming with you and Jamie. I have to go out now and will get back here to see the folks as soon as I can. Make my excuses.”

“It’s about the murder,” Ursi stated.

“Don’t say anything in front of mother, Ursi,” I warned her. “You know how she worries.”

I’ll have a word with your father,” Jamie said.

Ursi and I looked at him askance.

Al Rogoff and I maintain a mobile office in the parking lot of the Publix supermarket on Sunset Avenue. It’s convenient, discreet and you can’t beat the rent. Our location is as far from the madding crowd as one can get and our bays depend on space availability. Same church, different pews, but it works and what works is good.

As more people sleep in than go to Publix on Sunday morning I got a spot next to Al and joined him in his car. He was in need of a shave and a few hours’ sleep. For a change, Al wasn’t chomping on a cigar, but the aroma of those past pervaded his car’s interior like a pool hall on a busy night.

“You’re ten minutes late,” Al griped as I climbed in. “I gotta be back at the station in two hours.”

“Sorry, Al, but I’m still reeling from the news.”

“It never fails, Archy. You get a case and we get a body. Do me a favor and retire.”

I lit an English Oval and for reasons known only to Al Rogoff he immediately rolled down the window on the driver’s side.

“Start that rumor and I’ll be forced to retire,” I said. “What can you tell me, Al?”

“How about, what can you tell me? Everyone knows that Archy McNally was in the lady’s employ.”

“You first, Al,” I said in a bid for time. How much could I tell Al at this point? Very little. If Al and I were business partners in fighting villainy, I was committing an act of malversation which itself is a felony.

Al pulled a notebook out of his bulging back pocket and began to thumb through it. He was one of the shrewdest of Palm Beach’s finest. Never relying on memory, he always took notes in his own form of shorthand that resembled the writing on Cleopatra’s Needle, but I have known prosecuting attorneys to rely on their definitude, making Al one of the most sought-after trial witnesses and the bane of defense counselors.

Sabrina Wright went for a drive last night in her rented car shortly after eight. Her husband said this was not unusual. She enjoyed going for a drive by herself after dinner, saying it not only helped her relax but the time alone was conducive to concocting plots for her novels. In the short time she had been in Palm Beach she found driving along the ocean with a sky full of stars overhead especially influential when it came to weaving romances.

Since being at The Breakers, Sabrina had gone on such an outing several times before this particular evening, according to her husband, Robert Silvester.

(I immediately made that out to be two times. Each time to meet one of the boys. Last night was, in her own words, to meet with the last of the Mohegans. Which one? “Did you expect to shoot a leopard, Mr.. ”)

When she didn’t return by ten, as she usually did, her husband began to worry. He called his stepdaughter, who was in the next suite at The Breakers, to see if Sabrina was with her. She wasn’t. The girl, Gillian, then called Zack Ward, who was in an adjoining suite. He had not seen Sabrina since dinner. When Sabrina did not return by midnight, Robert Silvester had called the police to report her missing, giving them the make and model of the car she was driving.

Shortly thereafter, an anonymous caller reported an abandoned car on Island Drive at the turnoff to Tarpon Island. Al, cruising in his patrol car, was radioed to check it out.

Anonymous caller? Where had I heard that before? I did not interrupt Al for details.

“I found her,” Al concluded solemnly.

“Did you know who she was?” I asked him.

“Not by sight, but by her car. I got an APB on my radio with the car description a short time before I got the order to proceed to Island Drive. Like I said, Archy, you get a case and we get a body.”

“I do wish you would stop saying that, Al. It’s bad for business.”

“We like it when business is off,” Al reminded me. “So, what can you tell me?”

A lot, I thought, and I felt like a traitor for not being able to pass it on to Al, but it was early days. Why drag down the team when only one player had run amok? I wasn’t doing it for Tom, Dick, or Harry, but for Sabrina. I was the only one who knew her secret and I was going to keep it and uphold her end of the bargain she had made with those ignoble snobs. When the guilty malefactor was caught, and he would be caught, he could say what he pleased, but Sabrina would not have broken her trust.

I took a chance at the start of this case and now I had to take another. I had to go my own way, without the help of Al Rogoff and the police, and lasso the man that got away. I was in possession of all the puzzle’s pieces. I could see the solution, but I could not perceive it. As my favorite wit had observed: To look at a thing is quite different than to see a thing.

“Sabrina Wright asked me to find her husband,” I told Al, and repeated the story I had been passing around since my first meeting with Sabrina. Was the sin of omission a venial or mortal offense?

“It seems to me her daughter was as interested in eloping as I am,” Al said. “Why was she snooping around old newspapers and calling editors?

Everyone is talking about it because the girl didn’t exactly make a secret of what she was doing. What do you know about it?”

I repeated the rumors as told me by Lolly Spindrift and Ursi.

Al nodded thoughtfully. “It’s the theory we’re working on,” he said.

“Sabrina Wright was here to dig up the dirt on one of our old and respected families and write about it. Now I think she gave you that story about her daughter eloping as an excuse for all of them being here.”

“Why did her husband pull out of the Chesterfield without telling her where he was going?” I tossed out to muddy the waters.

“Did he?” Al said. “Or was it all part of the ploy and a good excuse to get you in on the game. He gave himself up as soon as his wife had given you enough misinformation to blab all over town.”

I didn’t take umbrage because I was delighted the police had a plausible theory and I was perceived as a dupe and not a perp. “Have you questioned the daughter, Al?”

He shook his head. “We ain’t seen her yet. The husband came to the station house when we notified him and he described the events that led to him calling us. No one has been grilled so far. We have to know what the girl and her boyfriend were looking for to crack this one, Archy. Someone didn’t like the idea of being wrote about by Sabrina Wright.”

Wrote about? Catchy, no? Al does not like being corrected, so I let that one pass and wondered instead if Gillian, Silvester, and Zack Ward would tell the police what they were up to? Gillian had said she did not want to go public with her quest. She wanted only a chance to meet with her father in private without causing aspersion to any concerned.

I doubt she would talk and if she didn’t, neither would Silvester or Ward.

But did the girl think her father had killed Sabrina to maintain his anonymity? If so, would she talk to revenge her mother’s death? And if she didn’t think her father was involved, what did she think? What did they all think?

“Did the scene-of-the-crime boys find anything?” I queried. Might as well learn as much as I could now as I had no intention of meeting with Al again until I, or the police, had solved the murder of Sabrina Wright.

It was Christinas in July. For Ursi there was perfume by Chanel. For Jamie, a cardigan sweater in loden cashmere. For Hobo, a leather collar tooled with banana trees. For Archy, a lemon-yellow sports jacket in raw silk.

“Your mother spotted it,” father said, ‘and insisted it was made for you. I wonder why?”

“And look what I got,” mother exclaimed, holding out her hand to display a lovely tennis bracelet circled with brilliants. “It was very expensive but your father insisted.”

“It was her reward for being such a good sailor,” father told us. “I had chronic mal de mer while her team won the shuffleboard championship. Mother also managed to win a few hearts. The gentlemen were very attentive and their wives furious.”

“Don’t believe him,” mother said with a shy smile.

There was no doubt but that the trip was a rousing success, the voyagers returning rested and in good spirits. Mother’s florid complexion, which kept us so concerned, had not disappeared but it was less evident thanks to a very healthy-looking tan. The dispenser of all this largesse had not left himself off the receiving end. Jamie had to unpack as many fancy liqueurs as one could legally purchase at their duty-free ports of call.

Mother inspected her garden and pronounced her begonias alive but little else. “I don’t think Martha talked to them,” she complained of the woman who had attended the plants. “Oh, she did a good job, but they do enjoy being spoken to. Tomorrow they will know I’ve returned.”

Tomorrow the begonias would be begging for earplugs.

By cocktail time things had calmed down and the McNally family was back to their familiar routine. We gathered in the den where father poured and stirred and served as mother smiled approvingly, and I raised my glass in a toast. “The best present you brought us is yourselves, back home safe and sound.”

“Why, Archy, how lovely,” mother applauded.

“Thank you, Archy,” father said unbending as far as the Chairman of the Board would ever unbend. “I trust you’re not going out tonight as I’d like to confer with you after dinner.”

“I thought as much, sir, and made no plans.”

Being on the ship-to-shore with Mrs. Trelawney daily, it was not office matters father needed to be advised of. Jamie had apparently had a chance to tell him of my involvement with Sabrina Wright. They say thoughts have wings and ours must have touched down on mother’s shoulder.

“Did you hear about the writer Sabrina Wright?” she exclaimed. “It was all the talk at breakfast. The ship’s newspaper put out a special edition to make the announcement. I can’t tell you how many of the ladies had brought her latest book along for leisure reading. What have you heard, Archy?”

We tend to keep the more harrowing aspects of my business from mother as it only aggravates her hypertension. However, rather then lie to her, which would be undignified, we simply soften the rough edges or omit the more sordid details. In keeping with this edict I readily admitted, “I met Sabrina Wright shortly after she arrived here.”

“Really, Archy? How exciting. Was it at a book signing?”

“I would be more interested in hearing about Binky’s housewarming party,” father insisted. “Did he like my gift and how many more did he receive?”

Always amiable to forgo a celebrity for a friend, mother started in her chair, “Oh, yes. Mrs. Trelawney told us Binky now has his own apartment. Tell us all about it, Archy.”

I regaled them with life at the Palm Court until Ursi announced dinner.

It had been a long day for the travelers who were looking forward to retiring early in a bed not bolted to the floor. With this in mind the ever vigilant Ursi presented us with light but satisfying fare, consisting of a crabmeat cocktail with lemon and a tangy red pepper sauce, grilled chicken breasts, chilled sliced beets marinated in vinegar, and tossed with diced onions, steamed broccoli florets, and Ursi’s own home-baked bread which has become a staple of her kitchen.

In a celebratory mood, the Squire poured a bottle of Chateau Lafite, 1950. Mother, as always, stayed with her sauterne. The homecoming meal ended with ice cream and Ursi’s almond cookies.

I kissed mother’s velvety cheek before father escorted her to bed shortly after dinner. “I missed you so,” she whispered to her favorite son. I assured her the feeling was mutual and went into the den to await father’s return. When he joined me he took his customary seat behind his desk and asked if I would join him in a glass of port. “I would, sir, thank you.” I went to the sideboard and poured two glasses of the wine, serving the Gov’nor before perching in a comfortable wing chair.

To your good health, Archy,” he saluted. “It’s good to be home.”

Stroking his mustache he said, “Wasn’t there a book awhile back called Ship of Fools?”

As the Master is a latter-day Victorian who reads only Dickens, this caught me off guard. But like Jamie Olson, mon pere is a keen listener and what he hears he does not forget. “Yes, sir. A much praised novel by Katherine Anne Porter. It was also a very popular film. I take it your holiday is what brings it to mind.”

“Yes,” he sighed. “There were a few good chaps aboard but Porter’s title has much to say about the majority of our shipmates. However, your mother relaxed and enjoyed it and for that reason I have no regrets and would gladly do it again.” Amazing how devoted he was to his wife of almost half a century. Would I one day sit in that swivel leather chair behind that great oak desk and utter the same sentiment?

I think not. I gently swirled my port in the fine crystal glass, savored its aroma, and drank. “For the likes of such as me, mine’s a fine, fine life.” Father opened the side drawer of his desk and brought out his cigars. “Archy?” he said, proffering the box. “No, thank you, sir.” I took out my English Ovals. “I’ll have one of these.” Don’t be misled by this. Father was anxious to learn my news, but the rituals must be observed. The after-dinner port, the comments regarding his shipmates that were not meant for feminine ears, the cigar, its tip now being removed with a special scissors, and finally touching flame to stogy before puffing it to life. Did he pretend we sat in a gaslit room filled with furniture adorned with antimacassars?

Did he hear the clop, clop, clop of horse-drawn carriages on cobblestones echoing through the dense evening fog? Was I Boswell to his Johnson, or was he Watson to my Holmes? Exhaling a cloud of smoke he said, “Perhaps Sabrina Wright’s death brought to mind the Porter novel. Jamie tells me you were working for the lady?” “Briefly, sir.

If you would indulge me I think I should tell you all that transpired from the day I met Sabrina Wright to this very morning.”

“You have the floor, Archy.”

As the story unfolded father stroked, tugged, and blinked as his one eyebrow rose and fell with the speed of an express elevator in a busy office building at lunchtime. Each gesture depicted his thoughts more eloquently than the spoken word.

An Appleton, a Cranston, and a Schuyler,” he intoned at the conclusion as if each were a deity and perhaps, to Prescott McNally, they were.

“All three? And the story is true?”

“I see no reason why those involved would lie, sir.”

He shook his head as he tugged on his bushy mustache. And you were at Casa Gran?”

“It was a fund-raiser for Troy Appleton,” I said, but it’s so seldom I get a chance to impress father I went into details with, “Harry Schuyler took me to the roof garden where we spoke in private.”

Father’s eyebrow disappeared into his hairline. “The roof garden is off-limits when the house is lent for charitable events,” he said. “You know, I did some work for Schuyler a few years ago. Nothing much, but I was hoping for more.”

As I related my meeting with Al Rogoff, I commented, “The police are convinced that Gillian’s search is the reason Sabrina was murdered.

They think the girl was gathering information on a prominent Palm Beach family for her mother. Zack Ward’s involvement with a tabloid only adds fuel to the rumors. Strange how close everyone is to the truth.”

Father continued to smoke thoughtfully as I put out my cigarette. The second for today, but it was an exceptional day.

“Would you please pour me another dram, Archy, and help yourself to more if you like.” When I had refilled both our glasses the Gov, still nonplussed, ruminated, “An Appleton, a Cranston, and a Schuyler.

Remarkable.”

“Your father has already left,” Ursi informed me when I came down to breakfast.

Good. It was why I had lingered over my ablutions. Ever diligent, I knew father would want to arrive at the office exceptionally early on his first day back at the helm. Mrs. Trelawney, as always, would be there to greet him when he walked in the door. I was more than a little apprehensive about the day ahead and I did not want to start out with father’s doubts, fears, and cautions ringing in my ears.

“Just scrambled eggs and toast, Ursi, please,” I ordered. “It’s all I can take this morning.”

“I have a lovely fruit cup,” Ursi tempted me, ‘with fresh pineapples and cherries.”

Not wanting to offend I accepted the offer. “But no cream. Just the fruit.” The colorful array was cool, refreshing, and delicious, but I missed the cream.

“Jamie has gone to gas up the Ford and your mother is in the greenhouse. She’s been there practically since dawn.”

I saw Ursi add a splash of milk to the bowl before she started scrambling the eggs. “I have those breakfast sausages you like. Should I put a couple in the skillet?” she asked.

“Why not?” I would start my diet, once more, tomorrow, if I wasn’t shot dead before then. If I was, it wouldn’t make any difference if I had my eggs with or without the sausages.

Busy at her stove, Ursi prattled, “The murder is the talk of the town, Archy. Everyone is guessing who the family is that poor Sabrina Wright was after. Neither her husband nor daughter has given the police a statement as yet, but when they do we’ll all know who it is.”

Curiosity made me ask, “Who are the leading suspects?”

“Harry Schuyler, hands down,” Ursi said. “He wasn’t called a terrible infant for nothing.”

“I believe the expression is enfant terrible when you’re talking about the very rich. But what could one write about Harry Schuyler that hasn’t already seen print?”

“With his kind I imagine what we know only scratches the surface. I think Sabrina Wright had something on him that no one in the world knows.”

Out of the mouths of babes, I pondered. “And you think he did her in, Ursi?”

“Him or the one she was after. Her daughter knows who it was. Why it’s like a Sabrina Wright novel without the romance.”

My eggs and sausages were placed before me and, forgetting to tell Ursi I wanted dry rye toast, I was handed a generously buttered English muffin. Having been taught to eat what is served without making a fuss, I did just that.

I went to the greenhouse to have a word with mother before I left. I do this as often as time will allow because I enjoy seeing her in the joyful serenity she derives from administering TLC to her beloved blossoms. The dappled light coming through the tinted glass cast her in a warm glow and when she looked up at my entrance I noticed a smudge of brown earth on her perpetually blushing cheek. Her apron was also stained, her hair slightly ruffled, and her smile endearing. It was a picture I would cherish all my life.

“Oh, Archy, your new jacket, and it’s a perfect fit. I knew it would be.”

I wore the raw silk yellow jacket with a dark brown shirt and chinos.

“I dressed for you this morning, mother.” I said kissing her unsoiled cheek.

“How flattering. And see how much better my begonias look since I’ve been back. I told them all about our cruise.”

They did look rather perky on this lovely Palm Beach summer morning.

Blue sky, bright sun, and a refreshing ocean breeze that promised not to forsake us by noon. “Father told me how much you enjoyed it.”

She frowned. “Between us, Archy, it wasn’t all that wonderful. Too much to eat and too much to do. What they have against only three proper meals a day and a good old lounge chair, I’ll never know. But your father needed to get away and even if he did call the office every day he managed to relax and unwind a bit, and that made it all worthwhile.”

Was this a marriage made in heaven? And how nice to be a by-product of the union. “He said he had a marvelous time, mother.”

She looked at me wistfully. “What are your plans today, Archy?”

“This and that. Nothing special.”

“You will be careful, son, won’t you?”

What was this all about? “I’m always careful, mother. Why the long face?”

“You are involved in the Sabrina Wright murder, aren’t you?”

I could not believe that father had told her and I have never known Ursi or Jamie to trouble mother with any gossip more malicious than reporting what Palm Beach matron had worn the same dress twice in one season. Seeing my quandary she said, “Your mother is not as sharp as she used to be, but she’s not ready for the recycling bin just yet.”

“If they recycled you, mother, what would you come back as?”

A begonia, what else?”

“Do your begonias tell tales out of school?”

She brushed back a stray curl and anointed her forehead with yet another smudge. “I saw Jamie whispering to your father when we were waiting for our luggage at the dock. Last night I decided to open up a few topics and see which I would not be allowed to pursue. Sabrina Wright’s murder was the obvious choice. Your father couldn’t be less interested in Binky’s housewarming than I am in growing roses.”

I laughed. Long concerned with her short-term memory loss and her torpid interludes, I was more relieved at this sudden burst of astuteness than in her knowing the truth. “Okay, Miss Marple, I did some work for the lady when she arrived in town and she was alive and well when the job was done. I was not connected to her at the time of her death.”

“Will the police want to question you?” she asked.

“I imagine they will, mother.”

Are you going to help them find the murderer?”

I could honestly answer in the negative because what I intended to do I would do on my own. “I am going to tell the police what I know and leave it to them.”

“I’m. so glad, Archy.”

“So am I, mother.” I gave her another peck on the cheek and made my way out of the greenhouse.

The stretch limo got on my tail the moment I pulled onto Ocean Boulevard. I picked up speed and raised my voice in song, “Three blind mice, three blind mice…”

I was tempted to lead him to the scene of the crime, but I didn’t fancy being CNN’s morning news breaker Would the guy shoot me in the bright light of day? No, he would have his driver do it. Taking my time I drove to an outdoor juice bar in Lake Worth. I pulled into the limited parking area and the limo joined me. I did not get out of the Miata.

If Dickey Cranston wanted me he could come and get me. If he sent his driver to invite me in I would hold my ground.

We played the brinkmanship game for a couple of minutes, which is a long time when you’re taking up space in an outdoor juice bar and not lapping up the papaya. I decided to give the future ambassador to the Court of St. James sixty seconds to make his intentions known, then I would be the man that got away. At the count of thirty the limo door opened, the passenger door that is, and Mohammed came to the mountain.

That either Dick Cranston or Tom Appleton had employed a hired gun to do the job for them was too insane to be worth a precious moment of my time. Only the one who was to meet Sabrina that night knew where to find her and both Cranston and Appleton had scheduled other appointments which they had both dutifully kept. That left Harry-come-lately. The guy who was up north when Sabrina hit town, they guy who was the last to meet with Sabrina, and the guy who had nothing to lose by committing murder.

Harry Schuyler was also the only one not eager to confer face-to-face with Archy this morning. What was he waiting for?

After being told where to go by Tom Appleton, I heeded him not and went to The Breakers instead. The television vans and their crews were being kept a good distance from the exclusive grounds. Their presence told me that Silvester and Gillian had not left the compound. The reporters on the grounds and in the lobby tried to look like paying customers and failed miserably. The hacks from New York were in dark suits and their colleagues from California sported designer jeans and polo shirts emblazoned with a variety of circus animals.

I marched up to the desk and asked them to ring Robert Silvester’s room.

“Sorry, sir. Mr. Silvester is not taking calls or seeing visitors.”

“If you ring him and say Archy McNally wants to see him, I think he will acquiesce.”

The clerk started and gave me the wide eye. “Mr. McNally? Yes, sir.

I’ll ring Mr. Silvester’s suite.”

There were times, like now, when a mention in Lolly’s column went a long way in awing restaurateurs and hotel clerks. Unfortunately for Sabrina Wright, Lolly’s glib notice was the prelude to the end of her life. Either way it was a chilling indication of the power of the press. The clerk told me Mr. Silvester would see me and gave me the suite number, which I already knew. With a thank-you, I headed for the elevators.

They were all there Silvester, Gillian, and Zack Ward exhibiting signs of repressed hysteria aggravated by a good dose of cabin fever.

Silvester looked angry, Gillian looked as if she had been crying, and Zack Ward stood slightly apart from the pair looking as embarrassed as a stranger who had intruded upon a family squabble. Gillian was done up in a rather smart beige linen suit featuring a knee-length skirt and a mock turtleneck in white knit. Her hair had been cut short and shaped like a snug cap about her head. Could she have been made over by Virginia Cranston’s hair stylist? If so, he had made her look remarkably like her mother.

“I’m glad you’re here, Mr. McNally,” Silvester said. “I’ve been calling your office all morning.”

“I’ve been out,” I answered, then quickly added, “My sympathies to both of you.”

“Thank you,” Silvester said.

“My father didn’t do it, Mr. McNally!” Gillian cried.

Out of patience, Silvester reproached her. “Let’s discuss this with Mr. McNally like rational people.”

“We have been discussing it for two days and my answer is still no,”

the girl ranted. Ward went to her and took her hand.

Ignoring them, Silvester turned to me, “Have you spoken to the police?”

“No. I wanted to speak to you and Ms Wright before I saw them.”

“Thank you, and we wanted to talk to you,” Silvester said. “We have to report to the police station in an hour and we’ll have to face the press before we do and make a statement’ Here he glared at Zack Ward

‘although some of us have already been talking to the press… ad nauseam.”

“It’s my job,” Ward said, not concealing his defiance. “And all I’ve reported are the known facts. I haven’t told them anything else.”

“You’ve told them you’re on the inside,” Silvester charged, ‘holding the distressed daughter’s hand, when not even the man from the New York Times has been able to get near her.”

“But he didn’t tell them my father did it,” Gillian said, ‘as you want to do.”

It was clear this screaming match had been going on since the murder, and the bone of contention was becoming clearer with each salvo.

Joining Cranston and Appleton, Silvester asked me, “What are you going to tell the police, Mr. McNally?”

“The truth, and nothing but.”

“No,” Gillian screamed. “No, no, no.”

“Jill, shut up and listen to reason,” Silvester all but shouted. “We, and Mr. McNally, have no choice. We must tell them the truth.”

Gillian reprised her mantra. “My father didn’t do it.”

Playing the arbitrator, I offered, “If you would all calm down a moment, maybe we can work this out to everyone’s satisfaction,” It was pure swagger, but it did get their attention. “Rob, why don’t you tell me what’s been happening here this past week. I mean what was Sabrina doing we all know what Jill and Zack were up to.”

Silvester told me in detail that Sabrina was nervous, edgy, and short-tempered with all of them since they had settled into The Breakers. She pleaded with Gillian to give up her search and return to New York. She promised Ward an exclusive for his rag if he could talk Gillian into returning home.

“She saw Gillian’s father three times,” Silvester said.

“You’re just guessing,” Gillian interrupted.

“One at a time,” I reminded the girl. To Silvester, I said, “An informant told me that you told the police Sabrina went driving at night for creative inspiration.”

“When they found her, I got the call,” Silvester started to explain. “I went to the station house and Jill stayed here with Zack. They asked me what Sabrina was doing out alone at that hour and I didn’t want to tell them until I had talked to Jill, so I made up that story.”

“There,” the girl pounced, ‘you wanted my permission to tell them and I won’t give it to you, so why don’t we stick to your original story? My father didn’t do it.”

“Do you know who your father is?” I asked her.

“You know I don’t,” she said.

“Then you don’t know what he is capable of doing or what circumstances might have driven him to the limit,” I stated, beginning to feel empathy with Robert Silvester.

On the brink of more tears, she sobbed, “It’s too horrible to be true.”

The clever reporter looked at me and asked, “Do you know who her father is, Mr. McNally?”

One of the few perks of the situation made it possible for me to answer honestly in the negative.

Determined to finish his story, Silvester was saying, “Sabrina received three calls last week. She went out at night after each one of them. I asked her where she was going, but she refused to tell me. I had no doubt that it was to meet Jill’s father.”

“How could he know what was going on?” Gillian said.

“Really,” I answered for Silvester. “Between Lolly’s gossip column and your snooping around the library and calling newspaper editors he would have to be deaf, dumb, and blind not to know.”

“I think,” Silvester said, ‘that Sabrina tried to assure him that she would keep his secret and that she would take Jill home. Zack’s profession had also become common knowledge because Zack can’t refrain from showing people his press card. You can imagine how Mr. Anonymous felt about that.”

“I show my card when I have to,” Ward said. If Gillian wasn’t clinging to his hand, I believe he would have hauled off and hit Silvester.

Unperturbed, Silvester continued, “Sabrina was not a diplomat and I think the guy lost patience in their last meeting.”

It was clear they all believed only one man was involved. Would I have to tell the police differently, naming all three? How would Gillian react to that? Silvester? Zack Ward would love it. Would the men be forced to give a blood sample? Would the doctor go on national television holding an envelope and emote, “And the winner is…”

But now that Cranston and Appleton were in the clear did I have to name them? Couldn’t I just cut to Harry Schuyler? I didn’t know. But either choice would result in a betrayal of Sabrina’s bargain.

“Lost patience,” Gillian ridiculed. “Lost patience and took mother’s jewelry and money? It was a common thief. We would only be helping the murderer if we force the police to look elsewhere.”

“How would the police find your father?” Ward asked, as usual making the most sense. If we couldn’t find him, how will they?”

“That’s not the point,” she answered. “If we confess everything to the police the media will have a field day with it and my father will think that we are accusing him. That I believe he’s guilty. He would never agree to meet with me.”

.

Wanting to give the police and their suspects time to get acquainted, I lunched before driving to the station house. My gourmet meal consisted of two slices of pizza topped with pepperoni and washed down with a bottle of commercial beer. This gave me time to reflect on the events of the past week and the circumstances that had shaped them. In that week a life had been snuffed out and two others would pay the piper with theirs. But the real story went back thirty years. An unwanted pregnancy resulting in an overbearing mother and a virago wife. Sabrina Wright had ruled her kingdom like a tyrant and there would be those who said she got what she deserved. Not this observer. Daughter and husband were not indentured servants. They could have walked away, but refused to leave all that moola and privilege behind. Oppression was their excuse, greed their motive.

At the end of every case you look back and rue all the stupid mistakes you made from the start. You gather information, draw conclusions, and drive merrily up the garden path, never noticing the tow line attached to your front fender.

The television vans and the reporters, including Lolly Spindrift, had followed Sabrina’s family to the precinct. Lolly waylaid me as soon as I got out of the Miata.

“What’s happening, Archy? And remember, you owe me big,” he hassled.

“The police will have a statement for the press shortly and I will give you an interview when they do,” I promised. I moved past him and the others who now recognized me, thanks to Lolly’s reception.

I entered the palace without my statuette and was immediately grateful for Arnie’s inability to provide one when I was greeted by an officer bearing the name tag “Lieutenant Oscar Eberhart.” The gods move in mysterious ways and, as mother often said of life’s disappointments,

“Everything happens for the best.”

2U’m going to overlook Sergeant Rogoff’s telling you what you have no business knowing because it’s saved us mucho time, trouble, and embarrassment,” Oscar said. “If he does it again, it’ll cost him his badge.”p›

“Thank you, sir.” I tried to sound humble, which was difficult under the circumstances. I did crack the case. “Have they made a statement?”

“The reporter, Ward, told us the husband and the girl told him about the missing jewels and cash. When we confronted them with it they clammed up. I think the girl will crack, but this Silvester won’t budge. He called some big-shot lawyer in New York and the guy is on his way here.”

“I can corroborate Ward’s story,” I said.

“So Rogoff tells me.” Oscar didn’t seem particularly pleased with my offer. “We’re getting a warrant to search their rooms at the hotel. If the jewels Silvester described turn up we can hold the one who’s hiding them until a judge sets ball. The reporter is innocent. He talked, never knowing that he had incriminated the pair. He can go as soon as we’ve gone over his room, but he’ll have to stay in Palm Beach until we issue a formal indictment.”

“Can I see Silvester?”

“Ten minutes, but only because he might open up to you. There’s a guard in the room with him. If you can get him to talk, the guard will get me.”

It was a small room containing a table, four chairs, a uniformed policeman, and Robert Silvester. “Nice try,” I said.

He told me what I could go do to myself, which, as we all know, is a physical impossibility.

I sat opposite him. “How long have you and Gillian been plotting to get rid of Sabrina?”

I was again told to do the impossible, so I answered my own question.

The two of them must have said, “I could kill her, often enough for the empty threat to become a conspiracy. Perhaps a joke at first, devising means and opportunity, they were suddenly handed both when Sabrina made her confession to the girl. How simple. Gillian goes in search of her father who is reluctant to come out of hiding and the man must silence the only person who can finger him.

“I’m sure it was your idea,” I said. “Gillian is the actress. You’re the writer and director. When you told me she had attended drama school I should have paid closer attention. I also should have asked you how you managed to find the girl and Zack Ward so soon after arriving in Palm Beach. Now we know the seemingly chance meeting was prearranged.

“The girl is the victim,” Ursi said, handing me a glass of juice. “She came down here to elope with the man she loves and her mother followed her and tried to stop her. The stepfather has a girlfriend and he talked the daughter into the murder, but it was him who pulled the trigger. It’s all in the morning paper.”