"Not even a rich mama's boy?" I asked.
Mr. Pettibone paused to consider that. "Um," he said finally.
I sipped my plasma and considered what might be the wisest next move in my investigation of CW's intended. I had never met the lady, never heard of her prior to that morning, knew absolutely nothing about her. I mention this because it was so unusual. Palm Beach is a small town, especially in the off-season, and everybody knows everybody. But Ms. Theodosia Johnson was, as far as I was concerned, Ms. Terra Incognita.
Ordinarily, I would have immediately consulted Consuela Garcia. She is social secretary to Lady Cynthia Horowitz, one of Palm Beach's wealthiest chatelaines. Connie is plugged in to all our town's gossip, rumors, and scandals. She would surely have some poop to contribute on the subject of Theodosia Johnson.
But Connie is also my light-o'-love, and has been for several years. She is a Marielito and an absolutely smashing senorita to whom I have been, I must regretfully confess, unfaithful on more than one occasion.
If Connie has one failing, it's that the green-eyed monster seems permanently perched on her soft, tanned shoulder. We have vowed, many times, to maintain an open relationship, both of us free to consort with whomever she (Connie) or he (me) chooses. I have faithfully hewed to this agreement, but occasionally Connie has been overwhelmed by her fiery Latin blood.
For instance, not too long ago I escorted a charming miss to Testa's for Sunday brunch. We entered the dining room and I immediately espied Connie alone at a distant table. Unfortunately she spotted me and my companion at the same time. She gave me a look I don't wish to describe. She rose immediately and, carrying her brunch plate, marched up to us. I attempted an awkward introduction but to no avail. Connie pulled open the waistband of my lime green linen slacks and slipped in two eggs Benedict. Then she stalked out. It is not a memory I cherish.
So, in view of that recent confrontation, I thought it best not to request Connie's assistance in investigating a nubile young woman. Instead, I went to the rear of the Pelican Club's bar area and used the public phone to call Lolly Spindrift, the social reporter for one of our local gazettes. His popular column is called "Hither and Yon," which I presume refers to the Island of Palm Beach and West Palm Beach across Lake Worth.
"Lol?" I said. "Archy McNally here."
"You swine!" he shrieked. "You don't write, you don't call. How could I possibly have offended? I've never written a word about your vulgar dalliances, although the evidence occupies a full file drawer. And did I not mention your name-spelled correctly, incidentally-in my scoop on the Gillsworth homicides? A word of thanks from you? Hah! Stony silence has been my reward. Watch your step, bucko, or I may add you to my annual list of the Island's most noxious bachelors."
"Slow down a mo, Lol," I begged, "and have lunch with me."
"Where?" he demanded.
"The Pelican Club?" I suggested hopefully.
"Surely you jest," he said. "I wouldn't dine there if I was suffering from a terminal case of malnutrition. Try again."
"The Cafe L'Europe?"
"You're on, darling," he said promptly. "But only if I can have Krug with my beluga. You obviously want something from me, and it's going to cost you, sweetie. Meet you at the bar in a half-hour."
But it was two hours later that I was finally able to muffle his volubility long enough to broach the reason for this extravagant feast. By that time we were on our second bottle of bubbly. Not smashed, you understand, but not whimpering with pain either. Lolly was a sparrow of a man, all dash and chatter. Despite his small size, his capacity for food and drink is legendary. Once, at a party, I saw him consume an entire roast chicken, belch delicately, and head for the broiled lobster.
"Theodosia Johnson," I said to him. "About thirty years old, I think. The chosen of Chauncey Wilson Smythe-Hersforth. What do you know about her?"
Spindrift looked at me sorrowfully. "Oh dear," he said, "I fear I have been dining under false pretenses. There is very little I can tell you about the lady. I like to think of her as Madam X."
"Surely you must know something about her," I urged. "She lives in Palm Beach? On the acceptable side of the water?"
"She does indeed. In a rented condo. With her father."
"Single? Divorced? Widowed?"
"Part of the mystery," Lol said, filling our glasses again. "She's been in residence about a year. Seems to be well-heeled. Becoming more active in local charities. That's how she met the Chinless Wonder. At a black-tie bash to save the whales or dolphins or manatees-whatever. You've never met her?"
"Never heard of her until this morning."
He gave me a pitying glance. "Be prepared to have your timbers shivered, m'lad."
"Oh?" I said. "Why is that?"
"Beautiful!" he said enthusiastically. "A corker, believe me. If I was of a different religion, I would definitely be attracted. She's half-Garbo, half-Dietrich. Careful, darling. One look and you'll lose that prune you call your heart."
"An intriguing prospect," I said, pouring the remainder of the second bottle into our glasses. "How do you suggest I might meet this lalapalooza?"
"Easiest thing in the world," he told me. "Tonight the Pristine Gallery is having an exhibit of Silas Hawkin's portraits. You know him?"
"I've met him," I said. "I think he's an idiot."
"More oaf than idiot," Lolly said. "And a rich oaf. You know what they say about him, don't you? As a portrait painter he's the best plastic surgeon in Palm Beach. He charges thirty grand and up-mostly up-for a genuine oil portrait of our wealthier beldames. And every matron he's painted has her bosom lifted, wattles excised, and her gin-dulled stare replaced with a youthful sparkle. The man is really a genius at pleasing his clients. Anyway, at the to-do tonight, the gallery is going to show his latest masterpiece: a portrait of Theodosia Johnson. How does that grab you? Madam X herself is sure to be there. Why don't you pop by?"
"Thank you, Lol," I said gratefully. "I think I'll do exactly that."
Eventually we tottered outside and stood in the afternoon heat grinning foolishly at each other.
"Another luncheon like that," I said, "and I'll have a liver as big as the Ritz."
"Nonsense, darling," Spindrift said, gently swaying back and forth. "It was a yummy spread, and I'm pickled tink you asked me."
He gave me a careless wave and wandered away, leaving me to wonder if his "pickled tink" was deliberate or a lurch of a champagne-loosened tongue. I stood rooted, knowing I should return to my miniature office in the McNally Building and begin an inquiry into the creditworthiness of Madam X, including bank balances, net worth, source of income, and all that. But I feared my Krugged brain might not be capable of the task.
During my brief sojourn at Yale Law I had learned an effective method of determining whether one was or was not plotched. You recited aloud the following:
"Amidst the mists and coldest frosts, with stoutest wrists and loudest boasts, he thrusts his fists against the posts and still insists he sees the ghosts."
If you can say that without slobbering all over your chin, you are definitely not hors de combat. So I declaimed it aloud on Worth Avenue, attracting wary glances from passing tourists. I was delighted to discover my lower mandible remained bone-dry; the McNally medulla oblongata had not lost its keen edge.
But it was then threeish or fourish, much too late to return to the salt mines. So I drove home, slowly and cautiously, and took a nap.
I roused an hour later, full of p v, and went for my daily swim. The Atlantic is just across Ocean Boulevard from the McNally digs, and I try to do two miles each day, chugging along parallel to the shore and hoping no Portuguese man-of-war is lurking nearby, licking its chops. I returned home in time to dress and attend the cocktail hour, a family ceremony. That evening, as usual, my father did the honors, stirring up a pitcher of traditional dry martinis.