I finished my drink hastily, bid her a polite farewell, and left her still sprawled, starting on another fingernail. I was thankful to be going. Those moments with her were too intense, too charged with things unsaid, furies suppressed and threatening to break loose.
I drove away without a backward glance. The master of that home might be deceased but it was still the Villa Bile.
When I arrived at the McNally digs, a much happier household, I found Jamie Olson in the garage hosing down my mother's antique wood-bodied Ford station wagon. He was smoking one of his ancient briars, the one with the cracked shank wrapped with a Band-Aid.
"Jamie," I said, "Mrs. Jane Folsby was the live-in at Silas Hawkin's residence, but she has suddenly left their employ. Do you think you can find out where she's gone?"
"Mebbe," he said.
"Try," I urged. "She's a nice lady, and I'd like to talk to her."
I had a pleasant ocean swim, the family cocktail hour that followed was just as enjoyable, and dinner that night capped my pleasure. Mother went upstairs for an evening of television in the sitting room, father retired to his study to continue his wrestle with Dickens, and I climbed to my suite to update my journal, sip a small marc, and listen to a tape of Hoagy Carmichael singing "Star Dust."
It was a normal evening at the McNally manse, all quiet, peaceful, content. But just when you start believing the drawbridge is up, the castle is inviolate, and the rude world can't possibly intrude, along comes leering fate to deliver a swift kick to your gluteus maximus.
On that particular evening the boot came at approximately 9:30 p.m. in the form of a phone call from Sgt. Al Rogoff. He spent no time on greetings.
"I'm beginning to wonder about you," he said.
"Are you?" I said, thinking he was joshing. "Wonder about what?"
"Do you know a guy named Chauncey Smythe-Hersforth? Lives in Palm Beach."
"Of course I know him," I said. "He and his mother are clients of McNally and Son."
"Uh-huh. And do you know a woman named Shirley Feebling? In Fort Lauderdale."
"I don't know her," I said warily, beginning to get antsy about this conversation. "I met her once for an hour. Why the third degree, Al?"
"Son," he said, "you're just too free with your business cards. About an hour ago I got a call from a dick I know who works out of Lauderdale Homicide. This afternoon they found Shirley Feebling in her condo shot through the back of her head. Much dead. They also found your business card and a batch of hot letters from this Smythe-Hersforth character."
I closed my eyes. Her T-shirt had been lettered PEACE. What a way to find it.
"Your father still awake?" Rogoff asked.
"Of course he's still awake. It's only nine-thirty."
"I think I better come over," he said. "Okay?"
"Don't tell me I'm a suspect," I said with a shaky laugh.
"Right now you and Smythe-Hersforth are the only leads that Lauderdale's got. I promised to check you out, both of you. Makes sense, doesn't it?"
"I guess," I said, sighing. "The second time my business card has landed me in the soup. You're correct, Al; I've got to stop handing them out. Sure, come on over."
"Be there in fifteen minutes," he said and hung up.
I sat there a few moments remembering that ingenuous and not too bright young woman with her firm belief in True Love and a sunny future. It didn't take long for sadness and regret to become anger and a seething desire for vengeance. The murder of Shirley Feebling affected me more keenly than the killing of Silas Hawkin. I could conceive that his actions might have led to his demise. But hers, I was convinced, was the death of an innocent.
I prepared to go downstairs and alert father to the arrival of Sgt. Rogoff. I glanced nervously at the darkness outside my window. Our snug home no longer seemed secure.
7
Al had the look of an exhausted beagle. He sat in front of my father's magisterial desk and in a toneless voice recited what little he knew of the murder of Shirley Feebling.
She did not show up for work at the topless car wash on Tuesday morning. The boss was not concerned; his employees were usually late and frequently absent for a day or two simply because they had better things to do than lave insect-spattered vehicles driven by the curious and/or lubricious.
But when there was no word from Shirl by noon, and her phone wasn't answered, a friend and co-worker with the unlikely name of Pinky Schatz became alarmed and stopped by her place after work. The door of Ms. Feebling's condo was unlocked, and inside Pinky discovered the sanguinary corpse. After a single scream, she dialed 911.
The homicide detective to whom Rogoff had spoken had revealed only that my business card and the letters of Chauncey Wilson Smythe-Hersforth had been found during the initial search. If any additional significant evidence was discovered, he just wasn't saying.
"And that's all I've got," the sergeant concluded. He turned to me. "What have you got?"
I glanced at mon pere. He was the attorney; it was his responsibility to decide how much to reveal and how much to keep undisclosed in the name of client confidentiality. Al and I waited patiently while Prescott McNally went through his mulling routine, a process that endured long enough to calculate the square root of 2. Finally the guru spake.
"Discretion?" he demanded, looking sternly at Rogoff.
"As usual," Al said.
Father then described the letters Smythe-Hersforth had written Shirley Feebling during a time the two apparently had been enjoying a steamy affair. Later the client had a change of heart, but the woman insisted he honor the proposal of marriage he had made in writing. If not, she vowed to sell his letters to any interested tabloid.
"Uh-huh," Rogoff said. "How much was she asking?"
"Archy?" papa said. "You take it from here."
"I went down to Lauderdale to see her," I told the sergeant. "I had just the single meeting and left my business card. She absolutely refused to discuss a cash settlement. She wanted to marry him and that was that."
"Where is the guy now-do you know?"
"His office says he left Monday morning for a bankers' convention in New Orleans and won't be back until Thursday."
Al had been making brief notes on all this in a fat little notebook he carried. Now he slapped the cover closed and bound it with a wide rubber band. He said casually, "Archy, you got any idea who might have clobbered the woman?"
I had learned to lie convincingly by age four. "Not a glimmer," I said.
"Sergeant," father said, "if inquiries by the Fort Lauderdale authorities prove-as I am certain they will-that Smythe-Hersforth was in New Orleans at the time of this unfortunate woman's death, I will deeply appreciate any assistance you may provide in retrieving our client's personal letters since they obviously will be of no further interest or import in the official investigation."
All that was said in one sentence. It's the way my old man talks.
"I'll see what I can do, sir," Rogoff said, rising, and the two men shook hands.
The sergeant was driving a police car that night, not his personal pickup truck, and I walked him outside. He paused to light a cigar and blow a plume of smoke toward the cloudless sky.
"Nice weather," he observed.
"You don't find it a trifle warm?"
"Nah," he said. "I like the heat. It keeps the juices flowing."
"And how are they flowing on the Hawkin homicide?"
"They ain't," he admitted. "We're going through the drill, talking to everyone. It's what I call an NKN case: nobody knows nothing."
"A double negative," I pointed out.
"The story of my life," he said. Then suddenly: "How about you? You got anything?"
"A crumb," I said. "Mrs. Jane Folsby has left the Hawkins' employ. For reasons the deponent knoweth not."
"Yeah?" he said. "Can't say I blame her for getting out of that nuthouse. Go to bed, sonny boy; I only wish I could. And remember what I said about your business cards. Will you, for God's sake, stop passing them out? Every time you do, someone gets whacked and I have to put in more overtime."