"Love to," I said. "We'll have a housewarming."
She looked at me speculatively. "We could have one right now," she said. "It's a king-sized bed."
"I like to be treated royally," I said.
I feared she might be a white-bread lover. You know: spongy and bland. Men and women who devote all their energies to body-building and no-smoke, no-drink discipline are sometimes incapable of the kinder, gentler arts, like lovemaking.
I needn't have worried about Meg Trumble. Rather than white bread, she was pumpernickel, robust and zesty. She never used her strength to dominate, but I was always aware that her complaisance was voluntary, and so vigorous was her response to my efforts that I reckoned she could, if she wished, twist me into a pretzel.
It is generally thought that highly spiced foods act as aphrodisiacs. But I do not believe our behavior that night on coarse, motel-type sheets can be credited to Kick-Ass Venison Chili and Swamp Wings. I think Meg's fervor was partly inspired by her determination to banish aching memories, and my excitement fed on her passion.
Depleted (temporarily), we stared at each other with pleased recognition: two strangers who had discovered they spoke the same language.
"And you said you weren't in fighting trim," Meg scoffed. "You didn't mention loving trim."
"It was your doing," I told her. "Your beauty and joie de vivre. I rose to the occasion and, with your assistance, shall do so again."
"By all means," she said, moving closer.
It was a bit after midnight when we departed from Riviera Beach and headed homeward. We had tarried in her new apartment long enough to bathe together in a delightfully cramped shower stall, using a sliver of soap as thin as a potato chip. The towels had all the absorbency of alengon, but by that time nothing could lessen our beaming felicity.
I pulled into the driveway of the Willigan estate, crawled out of the car, and went around to open Meg's door. I held out a hand to assist her.
"Thank you for a lovely evening, Miss Trumble," I said, completely po-faced. "The pleasure of your company at dinner was exceeded only by the kindness of your hospitality."
"Thank you, Mr. McNally," she said, just as deadpan. "I trust our paths may cross again."
"A consummation devoutly to be wished," I said, and then we both dissolved and kissed. Lingeringly.
Science defines a kiss as the close juxtaposition of two or more orbicular muscles in a state of contraction. Science has a lot to learn.
I drove home in an ecstatic mood, knowing there would be no insomnia and no nightmares that night. And there weren't. I slept the sleep of the just.
Just exhausted and just content.
I awoke the next morning infected with a galloping case of joie de vivre I had obviously contracted from my companion of the night before. At breakfast, mother commented on my good humor and sought the cause.
"Did you have a pleasant dinner engagement, Archy?" she asked.
"Very."
"Connie?"
"No," I said. "Margaret Trumble, sister of Laverne Willigan. I think I may be in love."
My father uttered a single syllable that sounded suspiciously like "Humph."
I told him I would not be driving to the office with him that morning, as I sometimes did, but would be busy with discreet inquiries.
"Oh?" he said. "The cat?"
"No, sir," I said. "The Gillsworth letter."
He nodded. "The more important of the two. Do you have a lead?"
"Anorexic," I said. "But it's all I have."
He left for the office, mother went out to the greenhouse to bid good morning to her begonias, and I went upstairs to my den. I brought my journal up to date, which didn't take long, and then made a phone call.
"Lady Cynthia Horowitz's residence," she recited. "Consuela Garcia speaking."
"Hi, Connie," I said. "Archy. How about lunch today?"
"Love to," she said, "but can't. I'm working on the madam's Fourth of July bash, and I'm having lunch with the fireworks people."
Her friendly tone was gratifying. Obviously she had not been informed of my dinner date the previous night. And since we had agreed on an open relationship, I saw absolutely no reason to feel guilty. So why did I feel guilty?
"Another time then," I said breezily.
"When?" she asked.
Meg Trumble had said she planned to fly back to King of Prussia, so that romance would be on hold until her return. It seemed an ideal time to reassure Connie that our attachment remained intact.
"Dinner tonight?" I suggested.
"You're on," she said. "How about Tex-Mex food?" For a brief instant my world tottered, but then she went on: "There's a new place in Lantana that's supposed to have great chili. Want to try it?"
"Sounds good to me," I said bravely. "Pick you up around seven?"
"I'll be ready."
"Oh, Connie, one more thing: Did you ever hear of a woman named Mrs. Hertha Gloriana?"
"The seance lady? Of course I've heard of her. A lot of people swear she's a whiz."
"You don't happen to have her address and phone number, do you?"
"No, but I think she's listed in the Yellow Pages."
"The Yellow Pages!"
"Sure. Under Psychic Advisers. Why are you laughing?"
"I don't know," I said. "It just seems odd to have Psychic Advisers listed in the Yellow Pages. I mean, if you had a tumor, would you look in the Yellow Pages for Brain Surgeons?"
"You know, Archy," she said, "you have a freaky sense of humor."
"I guess," I said, sighing. "Thanks, Connie. See you tonight."
I went downstairs to my father's study. All his telephone directories had leather slipcovers. Stodgy? I agree. But you must understand that, to my knowledge, he was the only man in South Florida who wore rubbers when it rained.
There she was in the Yellow Pages, listed under Psychic Advisers: a two-column display ad that stated Mrs. Hertha Gloriana was licensed, bonded, provided "advice and direction," and accepted all major credit cards. It didn't say if she was a Freudian, Jungian, or W. C. Fieldsian.
I decided a personal encounter was preferable to a phone call, so I boarded the Miata and headed for West Palm Beach. That city has seven times the population of the Town of Palm Beach and, as this is written, is in the process of shedding its image as a poor country cousin and enjoying a long overdue rejuvenation.
Mrs. Hertha Gloriana's address was on Clematis Street in an area that was now awash with new office buildings, pricey boutiques, and quaint shoppes of all kinds. It would never be Worth Avenue, of course, but what will?
I had imagined the haunt of a medium would resemble one of those Dracula castles in the cartoons of Charles Addams. But Mrs. Gloriana had a fourth-floor suite in one of the new glass and stainless steel buildings.
Her office was impressive, the large, airy waiting room decorated in mauve and aqua. There was a man seated behind the receptionist's desk. He was idly leafing through a copy of Vanity Fair and didn't look up when I entered. He was about my age, a handsome devil in a dark, saturnine kind of way. And he was dressed beautifully. As you may have gathered, I fancy myself something of a Beau Brum-mell, but this dude made me look like Bozo the Clown.
He was wearing a suit of dove gray flannel that didn't come off a plain pipe rack. His shirt had white French cuffs and a collar wide enough to accommodate a knitted black silk cravat tied in a Windsor knot. The body of the shirt was striped horizontally with lavender bands. What a dandy he was!
He finally looked up. "May I help you, sir?" he inquired pleasantly enough.
"May I speak to Mrs. Gloriana, please."
He smiled. "Do you have an appointment?"
"Afraid not."
"Mrs. Gloriana prefers appointments. Would you care to set a date?"
"No possibility of seeing her now?"