I drove directly home, garaged the Miata, and went looking for my mother. I found her in the greenhouse, sprinkling can in hand, murmuring to her plants.
"See here, Mrs. McN.," I said, "last night you said Theo Johnson wasn't for me and ascribed that opinion to a vague feeling. Couldn't you be a bit more specific?"
She paused and stared at me thoughtfully. "Archy, I just thought her a little too determined, a little too aggressive."
"Certainly nothing she said."
"Oh no. She was quite polite. It was her manner, the way she carried herself. I suppose you think I'm being foolish."
I swooped to kiss her cheek. "Not at all," I said valiantly. "I think you're a very wise lady."
"She's after you, Archy," mother said, nodding, and that's all she'd say.
Ordinarily, after hearing that a woman was "after me," I might preen. But as I left the greenhouse a cobweb drifted across my forehead, and as I wiped it away I thought of those female spiders who, after the ecstasy of the bedchamber, devoured their mates. I imagine the poor chaps might seek their fate with a curious mixture of passion and helplessness. Just like me.
I went into the main house and was heading upstairs when Jamie Olson stopped me in the hallway.
"That Mrs. Jane Folsby," he said. "Used to be the Hawkins' live-in."
I nodded.
He handed me a grimy slip of paper. "Got her phone number," he said. "No address, but I hear she's staying with her sister in West Palm Beach."
"Thank you, Jamie," I said gratefully and slipped him a sawbuck. Then I continued up to my nest, stripped off my travel-wrinkled jacket, and phoned Al Rogoff at headquarters.
"Can you give me an hour?" I asked him.
"Five minutes," he said.
"Then I'll talk fast," I promised. "I've got two names and one license plate. I'd like you to check them out with the gendarmes of Troy, Michigan."
"And why should I do that?"
"I would prefer not to say."
"Then I would prefer to reject your request," he said puckishly.
Silence.
"Tell you what," he said finally, "I'm going to make you an offer you can't refuse. I'll do your digging for you, but if and when I get the skinny I won't turn it over until you tell me why you want it. Okay?"
"You drive a hard bargain."
"No, I don't," he said. "I drive a sensible bargain."
"You have a point," I agreed. "Very well, it's a deal."
I gave him the two names, Hector Johnson and Reuben Hagler, and the latter's license tag.
"Johnson?" the sergeant repeated, and I could hear interest quickening in his voice. "Isn't he the guy you're running a credit trace on?"
"That's correct."
"And his daughter was the model for Hawkin's last painting?"
"Yes," I said. "Except for 'Untitled.' "
"Uh-huh," Al said. "All right, I'll see what I can do. Don't expect a report tomorrow, Archy. These things take time. But eventually I'll get back to you."
"A consummation devoutly to be wished," I said.
"When are you going to learn to talk like a human being?" he demanded and hung up.
I showered and dressed informally for my dinner at the Pelican Club with Connie Garcia that evening. I thought I looked rather posh in a jacket of carmine houndstooth check and slacks in what I considered a muted olive plaid. But during the cocktail hour the guv commented that I looked like a sideshow barker, which I thought unnecessarily cruel. But then the old man considers an ascot an affectation so his sartorial opinions really can't be taken seriously.
I arrived early at the Club and put Mr. Pettibone to the test by ordering an Emerald Isle. Again I failed to stump him. He just nodded and said, "Gin, green creme de menthe, bitters," and set to work. The result was quite tasty but packed such a wallop I thought it best to switch to Labatt's Ale, and I was sipping that when Connie arrived.
She looked delicious, as usual, but that woman would be ravishing in a cast-iron muumuu. Fortunately she was wearing a silk jacket and shorts in a sea foam shade that complemented her suntan perfectly. Her long black hair was up in a chignon, and she was the cynosure of all eyes- including mine. We moved immediately to the dining room before Leroy's whole suckling pig was reduced to a glistening skeleton.
Glancing around at the crowd of famished diners I was happy to see that Americans were finally getting off their pernicious health kick. I mean there was a time when, scared silly by nutritionists, everyone seemed to believe that if they limited their diet to oats, turnips, and other goopy stuff, they'd live forever. Rubbish! Man does not live by tofu alone. Go for it, America!
We had roasted pork chops and sweet-and-sour sauce, minted noodles, and a salad of Arugula and endive with blue cheese dressing. Crusty pumpernickel baguettes. Dessert was a passion fruit tart served with fresh pineapple ice cream. If all that doesn't put your gastric juices in full flood, go back to your yogurt and see if I care.
Connie was in a bright, chatty mood that evening. As we gourmandized and steadily emptied our bottle of cab, she prattled on about Lady Cynthia Horowitz's activities and the latest Palm Beach scandals, real and alleged. It was during dessert that she asked, "Want to hear the latest rumor?"
"Of course," I said. "Gossip is mother's milk to me."
"Remember your asking me about Hector Johnson? Well, the talk is that he's taking a close interest in Silas Hawkin's widow. In fact, from what I hear, the two of them are what used to be called an item."
"No kidding?" I said, feigning a mild but not excessive interest. "He's pitching her, is he?"
"Apparently," Connie went on. "It started the day after Silas was killed. Now Johnson is at her house almost every day, and they've been seen together all over the place."
"Comforting the bereaved, no doubt."
"Oh sure," she scoffed. "Louise Hawkin also happens to be a well-put-together lady and probably stands to inherit a bundle. Johnson just moved faster than the other middle-aged bachelors in Palm Beach."
"I wonder what the daughter thinks of it."
"Marcia? Oh, she's a ding-a-ling; everyone knows that. About a year ago she was picked up at midnight wandering stark naked down Ocean Boulevard."
"I never heard that one," I said. "Drunk? Or stoned?"
"I don't think so," Connie said. "Just a crazy, mixed-up kid."
"Aren't we all?" I said lightly. "You know what I'd like at the bar?"
"A stomach pump?" she suggested.
"Slivovitz," I said. "To settle the old tumtum."
"Oh God," she said. "I hope you won't start howling at the moon again."
"I've never done that," I protested. "Have I?"
"Yes," Connie said.
She had recently purchased a new car, a white Ford Escort. Not enough pizzazz for my taste, but Connie loved it. She led the way back to her place and I followed in the Miata.
Connie lives in a high-rise condo on the east shore of Lake Worth. Her one-bedroom apartment is small but trig, and the view from her little balcony is tremendous. It's not really my home-away-from-home, but I had been there many, many times and knew where she kept the Absolut (in the freezer) and that you had to jiggle the handle of the toilet to stop it flushing.
We sprawled on her rattan couch, shoes off, and just relaxed awhile after that humongous meal. We were so comfortable with each other that we weren't bothered by long silences. Connie put on a Spanish tape and we listened to a great chantootsie sobbing. I think her songs were all about love betrayed but my Spanish isn't all that good.
The tape ended and Connie didn't flip it, for which I was thankful. She rose and held out her hand. I clasped it and trailed after her into the bedroom. It was a very feminine boudoir with lace ruffles on the bedspread and French dolls propped on the pillows. Over the bed was a framed poster of the movie Casablanca. Connie has a thing for Bogart.
We undressed as slowly and unconcernedly as an old married couple while we wondered if that passion fruit tart might not have been better with pistachio ice cream. Very domestic. Then we slid into bed, and those B-12s didn't let me down.