There was one intimate detail I am forced to reveal because it has a bearing on what was to follow. Theo had a small tattoo of a blue butterfly on the left of her tanned abdomen, almost in the crease of her thigh. It was, to the best of my recollection, the first time I had ever kissed a butterfly.
I returned home too late for my ocean swim-a mercy since I hadn't the strength-but in time to shower and dress for the family cocktail hour and dinner. My thoughts, needless to say, were awhirl, but I believe I hid my perturbation from my parents. The only discomposing moment came during our preprandial martinis when I eagerly asked my mother, "What did you think of Theo Johnson?"
The mater gave me her sweet smile. "She's not for you, Archy," she said.
It was cataclysm time. "Why on earth not?" I demanded.
Her shrug was tiny. "Just a feeling," she said.
I was subdued at dinner and retired to my quarters as soon as decently possible. I wanted to note the day's adventures in my journal but was unable. I merely sat rigidly, counting the walls (there were four), and tried to solve the riddle of Madam X.
I was still in this semi-catatonic state when Connie Garcia phoned. Her first words-"Hi, honey!"-were an enormous relief since they signified she had not yet learned of my hegira to Mizner Park with Theo Johnson.
"Listen," she went on, "seems to me you gabbled about a dinner date this week. When? Put up or shut up."
"Let me consult my social calendar," I said. "My presence has been requested at so many-"
"Cut the bs," she interrupted. "It's on for tomorrow night at the Pelican Club. I called and Leroy is planning to roast a whole suckling pig. How does that sound?"
"Gruesome," I said. "I am a suckling pig."
"As well I know," Connie said. "Around eight o'clock- okay?"
"Fine," I said. "I'll even change my socks."
I realized, after hanging up, that perhaps an evening with the open, forthright, and completely honest Ms. Garcia was exactly what I needed. After an afternoon spent with the disquieting and inexplicable Ms. Johnson, it would be like popping a tranquilizer. Of course after dinner Connie would expect me to expend some energy in her Lake Worth condo, but that prospect didn't daunt me. I hustled to the medicine cabinet in my bathroom and slid two B-12 sublingual tablets under my tongue.
Wasn't it John Barrymore who said, "So many women, so little time"? If he didn't say it, he should have.
8
Chauncey Wilson Smythe-Hersforth returned from New Orleans on Thursday morning, and at eleven o'clock he and his mother had a conference with my father. I was not invited to attend. But after it ended the Chinless Wonder came down to my office wearing a grin so smarmy I wanted to kick his shins.
"This is your office?" he said, glancing around. "My walk-in closet at home is bigger than this."
"Most of my work is done on the outside," I said frostily. "Like going down to Fort Lauderdale to interview Shirley Feebling on your behalf."
He immediately composed his features into a theatrical expression of sorrow. "That was a terrible thing," he said, shaking his fat head. "Just terrible. She was a nice girl, Archy. I really liked her."
I made no response.
"What's the world coming to?" he demanded rhetorically. "Violence everywhere. Silas Hawkin murdered and now this. A decent citizen isn't safe on the street anymore."
I had enough of his profundities. "What's happening with your letters?" I asked.
The smarmy grin returned. "Your father is going to pull every string he can to get them back from the Lauderdale police. They're of no use to them, are they? I mean I have a perfect alibi; a hundred people saw me at the convention. Listen, Archy, how much money did Shirley want?"
"She didn't want any. She just wanted to marry you."
"She should have known that was impossible," he blustered, running a finger between collar and neck. "The difference in our class and all that…"
"Uh-huh," I said. "And what was your mother's reaction to your proposing marriage to Shirley?"
That deflated him. "Well, uh, in your father's office she just said, 'Boys will be boys.' But when I get home tonight I expect she'll have more to say on the subject."
"Yes, I expect she will," I said with some satisfaction. "Tell me, CW, did Shirl ever say anything about someone threatening her or following her or annoying her?"
"No, she never mentioned anything like that. I think it was a druggie who broke in to rob her. She caught him at it and he killed her."
"Could be," I said, waiting for him to say, "She was just in the wrong place at the wrong time."
"She was just in the wrong place at the wrong time," he said, keeping his reputation for fatuousness intact. "Well, it was an awful thing, but in all honesty it's a load off my mind to have that business about the letters cleared up."
Which I thought was somewhat akin to the classic question: "But other than that, Mrs. Lincoln, how did you enjoy the show?"
"I can't wait to tell Theo Johnson," he went on. "She'll be so relieved."
I was as aghast at hearing that as I'm sure you are in reading it. "Good lord, CW," I said, "don't tell me you informed your intended fiancee about Shirley Feebling?"
"Of course I did," he said, stroking that ridiculous pushbroom mustache. "Theo and I promised to be completely frank and honest. No secrets. We tell each other absolutely everything."
If that were true, I reflected, I better leave for Hong Kong immediately.
I finally got rid of him with a keener appreciation of why Ms. Johnson was postponing her decision to become affianced. The man was a pompous ass, and Theo had the wit to recognize it.
It was then noonish and time to saddle up if I expected to make that delayed trip to Fort Lauderdale. So I grabbed my notes on Hector Johnson's bank references and went down to our underground garage to embark. It was probably a fool's errand, I glumly reckoned, and if so I was just the man for the job.
The Miata was cranky on that drive and I realized my darling was badly in need of a tune-up and perhaps a new set of tires. So I didn't pretend I was competing in the Daytona 500 but took it easy and arrived in Lauderdale a bit after two o'clock. I stopped at a Tex-Mex joint for a bowl of chili hot enough to scorch my uvula and a chilled bottle of Corona. Then I headed for the address of the first reference.
It was easy to find. J.P. Lordsley was a men's clothier on Federal Highway south of Oakland Park Boulevard. It seemed to be a hip-elegant shop where Hector might have purchased his fancy duds. I admired his chutzpah in supplying the name of a clothing store as a bank reference. I didn't even bother going in the place.
The second required a little more time to locate. The address of Reuben Hagler was on Copans Road and I drove past twice before I realized it was a hole-in-the-wall tucked into a rather decrepit strip mall half-hidden by dusty palms and tattered billboards. I parked and found a narrow door bearing a sign: reuben hagler, investment adviser. It was squeezed between the office of a chiropodist and a store selling raunchy T-shirts.
I didn't enter. Because sitting out front was a gunmetal Cadillac De Ville, and I was certain Mr. Hagler would have a profile like a cleaver. The Caddie had Michigan plates, and I remembered the number long enough to jot it down on a matchbook cover with my gold Mont Blanc when I returned to the Miata.
I drove even more sedately on the trip back to Palm Beach. I had a lot to ponder. And the result of all my intense ratiocination? Zilch. I needed help.
I had hoped to keep Sgt. Al Rogoff out of this nonsense. After all, I was engaged in nothing more than a credit investigation, and it was really none of his business. But conviction was growing that possibly, just possibly, Hector Johnson might be involved in the Shirley Feebling homicide.