Laverne shook her head. "Peaches is a house cat. We never let her out, because she's been declawed and can't defend herself. Sometimes she went into the screened patio to get some fresh air or sleep on the tiles, but she never went outside. The back patio door is always kept closed."
"Locked?"
"No. But at night the door from the hallway to the patio is locked, bolted, and chained. So if anyone got into the patio at night, what could they steal- aluminum furniture?"
"But during the day, if Peaches was on the patio and no one was around, any wiseguy could nip in, stuff her in a burlap sack, and lug her away?"
"That's about it. Harry is fit to be tied. He screamed like a maniac at Leon and Julie, but it
really wasn't their fault. They couldn't watch the damned cat every minute. Whoever thought she'd be kidnapped?"
"Catnapped," I said. "Leon and Julie are sure the outside door to the patio was closed?"
"They swear it was."
"No holes in the screening where Peaches might have slipped through?"
"Nope. Go look for yourself."
"I'll take your word for it. When did the ransom note arrive?"
"Thursday morning. Leon found it under the front door."
"I'll see it at Harry's office, but can you tell me what it said?"
She picked up her straw hat from the grass, clapped it on her head, tilted it far down in front to shade her eyes. She squirmed to find a more comfortable position in her canvas sling. I wished she hadn't done that. She took a deep breath and stretched, arching her back. I wished she hadn't done that.
"The note said they had taken Peaches and would return her in good health for fifty thousand dollars. If we went to the cops, they'd know about it and we'd never see Peaches alive again."
"Did they say how the payment was to be made?"
"No, they said we'd be hearing from them again."
"You keep using the plural. Did the note say we have the cat and you'd be hearing from them?"
"That's what it said."
"Uh-huh. Was the note in an envelope?"
"Yes. A plain white envelope."
"Was it typed or handwritten?"
"I thought it was typed, but Harry said it had been done on a word processor."
"That's interesting. Is Peaches on a special diet?"
"She eats people-type food, like sauteed chicken livers and poached salmon. Things like that."
"Lucky Peaches," I said. "Well, I can't think of any more questions to ask."
"What will you do now, Archy?"
"Probably go to Harry's office and get a look at the ransom note. It may have-"
I stopped speaking and rose to my feet as I became aware that Margaret Trumble was approaching from the pool, drying her hair with a towel. There wasn't much to dry. Her hair was fairer than her sister's, almost silver, and cut quite short. In fact, she had a "Florida flattop," clipped almost to the scalp at the sides and back, with the top looking like a truncated whiskbroom.
I must admit she wore this bizarre hairdo with panache, as if other people's opinions were not worth a fig. But I found her coiffure charming, perhaps because her face was strong enough to carry it. Good cheekbones there, and a chin that was assertive without being aggressive.
Laverne introduced us, lauding me as "one of my dearest friends"-which was news to me. Meg Trumble's handclasp was firm but brief. She coolly nodded her acknowledgment of my presence-obviously an exquisite joy to her-and began toweling her bare arms and legs.
"How do you like South Florida, Miss Trumble?" I inquired politely.
She paused to look about at the azure sky, green lawn, palms, and a sumptuous royal poinciana.
"Right now it's beautiful," she said. Her voice was deep and resonant, totally unlike Laverne's girlish piping.
"Oh yes," I said. " 'What is so rare as a day in June?' "
She looked directly at me for the first time. "Keats?" she asked.
"Lowell," I said, reflecting that though she might not know poetry, her pectorals were magnificent. "You're an excellent swimmer," I told her. "Do you compete?"
"No," she said shortly. "There's no money in it. Do you swim?"
"Wallow is more like it," I confessed.
She nodded again, as if wallowing was to be expected from a chap who wore a teal polo shirt and madras slacks.
"Laverne," she said, "I'd like to use the Porsche this afternoon. Can Leon drive me in?"
Her sister pouted. "I want Leon to get busy on the silver; it's getting so tarnished." She turned to me. "Archy, the Porsche is at the garage in West Palm for a tune-up. They phoned that it's ready. Could you drive Meg in to pick it up?"
"Of course," I said. "Delighted."
"That's a good boy," she said. "Meg, Archy will drive you to the garage and you can use the Porsche all afternoon. How does that sound?"
"Fine," the other woman said, expressing no gratitude to me. "I'll get dressed. I won't be long, Mr. McNally."
"Listen, you two," Laverne said. "Enough of that 'Miss Trumble' and 'Mr. McNally' crap. Be nice. Make it Meg and Archy. Okay?"
"Brilliant suggestion," I said.
The sister gave me a frosty smile and headed for the house.
"Don't mind her," Laverne advised me. "She's coming down off a heavy love affair that went sour."
"Oh? What happened?"
"It turned out the guy was married. Now she's in an 'All men should drop dead' mood. Treat her gently, Archy."
"That's the way I always treat women who lift weights," I said. "Thank you for the drink, Laverne. Please call me at my office or home if you hear from the catnappers. And I'll let you know if I learn anything about Peaches."
"I don't much care," she said, "but when Harry is miserable he makes sure everyone is miserable, if you know what I mean. So find that lousy cat, will you."
I bid her adieu and was standing next to the Miata puffing my first English Oval of the day when Meg Trumble came striding from the house. She was wearing a tank dress of saffron linen, and I saw again how slender and muscled she was. Her bare arms and legs were lightly tanned, and she had the carriage of a duchess-a nubile duchess.
I gave her the 100-watt smile I call my Super-charmer. My Jumbocharmer hits 150, but I didn't want to unnerve her. "You look absolutely lovely," I said.
"I would prefer you didn't smoke," she said.
I could have made a bitingly witty riposte and withered this haughty woman, but I did not lose the famed McNally cool. "Of course," I said, flicked my fag at a dwarf palm, and wondered why I had agreed to chauffeur Ms. Cactus.
We headed north on Ocean Boulevard, and when we passed the McNally home, I jerked my thumb. "My digs," I said.
She turned to stare. "Big," she said.
"I live with my parents," I explained, "with room enough for my sister and her brood when they come to visit. Laverne tells me you're thinking of moving down here."
"Possibly," she said.
And that was the extent of our conversation. Ordinarily I am a talkative chap, enjoying the give-and-take of lively repartee, especially with a companion of the female persuasion. But Meg Trumble seemed in an uncommunicative mood. Perhaps she believed still waters run deep. Pshaw! Still waters run stupid.
Then we were in West Palm Beach, nearing our destination when, staring straight ahead, she suddenly spoke. "I'm sorry," she said.
What a shock that was! Not only was she making a two-word speech, but she was actually apologizing. The Ice Maiden had begun to melt.
"Sorry about what?" I asked.
"I'm in such a grumpy mood," she said. "But that's no reason to make you suffer. Please pardon me."
If I had accepted that with a nod of forgiveness and said no more, I would have saved a number of people (including your humble servant) a great deal of tsores. But her sudden thaw intrigued me, and I reacted like Adam being offered the apple: "Oh boy, a Golden Delicious!"
"Listen, Meg," I said, "after I leave you I planned to have a spot of lunch and then go back to my office. But why don't you have lunch with me first, and then I'll drive you to the garage."
She hesitated, but not for long. "All right," she said.
We went to the Pelican Club. This is mainly an eating and drinking establishment, although it is organized as a private social club. I am one of the founding members, and it is my favorite watering hole in South Florida. The drinks are formidable and the food, while not haute cuisine, is tasty and chockablock with calories and cholesterol.
The place was crowded, and I waved to several friends and acquaintances. All of them eyeballed Meg; the men her legs, the women her hairdo. Such is the way of the world.
I introduced her to Simon Pettibone, a gentleman of color who doubles as club manager and bartender. His wife, Jas (for Jasmine), was housekeeper and den mother; his son, Leroy, was our chef, and daughter Priscilla worked as waitress. The Pelican could easily be called The Pettibone Club, for that talented family was the main reason for our success. We had a waiting list of singles and married couples eager to become full-fledged members, entitled to wear the club's blazer patch: a pelican rampant on a field of dead mullet.
Priscilla found us a corner table in the rear of the dining room. "Love your hair," she said.
"Thank you," I said.
"Not you, dummy," Priscilla said, laughing. "I'm talking to the lady. Maybe I'll get me a cut like that. You folks want hamburgers?"
"Meg?" I asked.
"Could I get something lighter? A salad perhaps?"
"Sure, honey," Priscilla said. "Shrimp or sardine?"
"Shrimp, please."
"Archy?"
"Hamburger with a slice of onion. French fries."
"Drinks?"
"Meg?"
"Do you have diet cola?" "With your bod?" Priscilla said. "You should be drinking stout. Yeah, we got no-cal. Archy?"
"Frozen daiquiri, please."
"Uh-huh," she said. "Now I know it's summer."
She left with our order. Meg looked around the dining room. "Funky place," she observed.
"It does have a certain decrepit appeal," I admitted. "How come no hamburger? Are you a vegetarian?"
"No, but I don't eat red meat."
"I know you don't smoke. What about alcohol?"
"No."
"Then you must have a secret vice," I said lightly. "Do you collect cookie jars or plastic handbags?"
Suddenly she began weeping. It was one of the most astonishing things I've ever seen. One moment she was sitting there quite composed, and the next moment tears were streaming down her cheeks, a perfect freshet. Then she hid her face in her palms.
I can't cope with crying women. I just don't know what to do. I sat there helplessly while she quietly sobbed. Priscilla brought our drinks, stared at Meg, then glared at me. I knew she thought I had been the cause of the flood: Priscilla believed breaking hearts was my hobby. Ridiculous, of course. I may be a philanderer, but if there is one thing I have inherited from my grandfather (a burlesque comic) it is this inflexible commandment: Always leave 'em laughing when you say goodbye.
"Look, Meg," I said awkwardly, "did I say the wrong thing?"
She shook her head and blotted her face with a paper napkin. "Sorry about that," she said huskily. "A silly thing to do."
"What was it?" I asked. "A bad memory?"
She nodded and tried to smile. A nice try but it didn't work. "I thought I was all cried out," she said. "I guess I'm not."
"Want to talk about it?" I asked.
"It's so banal," she said. "You'll laugh."
"I won't laugh," I said. "I promise."
Priscilla brought our food, glanced at Meg, gave me a scowl, then left us again. While we ate our lunch, Meg told me the story of her demolished romance. She had been right: it was banal.
It had been a high-voltage affair with a handsome rogue. He had vowed undying love and proposed marriage, but continually postponed the date: he wanted to build up his bank account, his mother was ill, his business was being reorganized, etc. The excuses went on for almost two years.
Then a girlfriend brought Meg a newspaper from her swain's town. He had won a hefty prize in the state lottery. The front-page photograph showed him grinning at the camera, his arm about the waist of a woman identified as his wife. That was that.
"I was a fool," Meg said mournfully. "I don't blame him as much as I blame myself-for being such an idiot. I think that's what hurts the most, that I could have been tricked so easily."
"Did you enjoy the relationship?" I asked.
She toyed with her salad a moment, head lowered. "Oh yes," she said finally, "I did. I really liked him, and we had some wonderful times together."
"So it's really a bruised ego that makes you weep."
She sighed. "I guess I always had a high opinion of my intelligence. I know better now."
"Nonsense," I said. "Intelligence had nothing to do with it. It's your emotions that were involved, and you were too trusting, and so you were vulnerable and-got hurt: a constant risk for the hopeful. But would you rather be a crusty cynic who denies all possibility of hopes coming true?"
"No," she said, "I don't want to be like that."
"Of course you don't," I said. "Meg, when one is thrown from a horse, the accepted wisdom is to mount and ride again as soon as possible."
"I don't think I'm ready for that."
"You will be," I assured her. "You're too young, too attractive to be grounded."
Then we finished our lunch in silence. I was happy to note that despite her sorrow she had a good appetite: she emptied the really enormous salad bowl.
"Basil," she said.
"I beg your pardon," I said. "The name is Archy."
She laughed. "In the salad, silly. It was delicious. Archy, are you really one of Laverne's dearest friends?"