McNally's luck (32 page)

The medium looked at me with widened eyes. "What an odd question."

"Well, did he?" I persisted. "Did Gillsworth come to your office and talk to Frank?"

"Several times," she said, nodding. "But they always went into the room where we did our mailings. I don't know what they talked about."

"Just tell Sergeant Rogoff that," I advised. "I'm sure he'll be interested. Hertha, will you be staying here?"

"Of course she will," Meg said definitely. "As long as she wants. Forever, I hope."

The medium turned and embraced the other woman tightly, kissing her on the lips. "Oh sweetheart," she cried, "what would I ever do without you?"

The two were hugging and whispering to each other when I left. I headed for the Pelican Club, hoping a wee bit of the old nasty might help restore my sanity. As I drove, I reflected on the strange convolutions of human behavior.

I could understand Meg's decision. After all, she had been betrayed by a man in a particularly cruel and humiliating manner. But Hertha's actions puzzled me. The married medium who dispensed her kisses so freely seemed a contradiction: she was a very physical spiritualist.

But that, I realized, was occupational stereotyping. Most of us are guilty of it.

For instance, librarians are generally thought to be sexless, dried-up biddies who affect a pince-nez and don rubber gloves before shaking hands with a man. I know from personal experience that this image is totally, totally false. (I wonder what Nancy is doing now?)

So it was really not too surprising to learn that being a psychic did not preclude Hertha from having urges of a more corporeal sort. A horny medium? Well, why not? And if she was subject to nymphomaniacal twinges, who was I, a hapless lothario, to condemn her? And if her nature included a predilection for sapphic relationships, so be it.

When I walked into the Pelican Club, the radio behind the bar was on, and Vikki Carr was singing "It Must Be Him." It was just too much, and I burst out laughing.

"You seem in a happy mood today, Mr. McNally," Simon Pettibone said.

"Pondering life's ironies, Mr. Pettibone," I said. "It is indeed a mad, mad world."

"But the only one we have," he reminded me.

"A frozen daiquiri, please," I responded.

I left the bar to use the public phone. Of course I called Rogoff, and of course he was unavailable. I slowly sipped my way through two daiquiris, called the sergeant every ten minutes with no results, and finally got through to him on my fifth call. He was brusque, obviously under pressure, and I hurriedly blurted out an invitation to stop by the McNally home that night at nine. "Okay," he said and hung up abruptly.

I had lunch while seated at the bar. Priscilla brought me a jumbo cheeseburger with side orders of french fries and coleslaw. I wolfed this Cholesterol Special with great enjoyment and had an iced

Galliano for dessert. I suspected my arteries might soon require the services of a Roto-Rooter man.

I drove back to Worth Avenue to take up a project I had started days ago and never completed: buying a tennis bracelet for Consuela Garcia. The need for a gift seemed more important now than when the idea had first occurred to me, for I had neglected that marvelous woman shamefully. The morning's encounters with Laverne Willigan, Meg Trumble, and Hertha Gloriana made me realize how important Connie was to me. Vital, one might even say, and I do say it.

I visited four jewelry shops before I found a bracelet that appealed to me: two-carat, cushion-cut diamonds set in 18K gold. It was horribly expensive, but I handed over my plastic gaily, following McNally's First Law of Shopping: If you can afford it, it's not worth buying.

I went directly home, stripped to the buff, and fell into bed for a nap, for I had enjoyed only five hours of shuteye the previous night. Before sleep claimed me, I thought again of my experiences that morning and laughed aloud. I simply could not take them seriously.

It is my conviction that solemnity is the curse of civilization. Think of all the earnest people who have sacrificed themselves for gods now forgotten or wasted their lives on causes no one remembers. Laughter is our only salvation. Pray with a giggle and mourn with a smile. And if you happen to believe, as I do, that women are nature's noblest work, know ye that long face ne'er won fair lady.

Thus endeth the scripture according to St. Archy.

It had been a sunny day with a scattering of popcorn clouds, but when I awoke from my nap around six p.m., a dark overhang had moved in from the east and rain had started. There was no wind, so the drizzle fell vertically and soon became a steady downpour that threatened to drive us all to the rooftops.

I wondered if Al Rogoff would show up in that drencher, and by nine o'clock I was waiting in the kitchen, peering out the window and ready to go out with my big golfing umbrella if he arrived. He plowed up in his pickup only fifteen minutes late, parked close to our back door, and came rushing in before I had a chance to unfurl my bumbershoot.

He looked godawful. His features were slack with weariness and there were puddles of shadow under his eyes. Even worse, he seemed harried and uncertain, as if he was faced with momentous decisions and didn't know which way to jump. I took his dripping slicker, hung it away to dry, and led him to the study.

Father was waiting for us, took one look at the sergeant, and immediately broke out his bottle of Remy Martin XO. He reserved this superb cognac, he said, for "special occasions." To my knowledge there had been two in the past ten years.

Rogoff flopped into a club chair, accepted his glass gratefully, and took a deep pull. Then he sucked in a long breath, exhaled noisily, and said, "Manna."

"Sorry to bring you out on a night like this, sergeant," father said. "It could have waited."

"No, sir," Al said, "I don't think so. Things are moving too quickly. Right now it's all a big mishmash, and I'm hoping you can help make some sense out of what we know and what we guess."

I had poured tots of brandy for father and myself. He was enthroned behind his desk, as usual, and I took an armchair to one side, facing both of them. Rogoff fished a cigar from an inside pocket and looked at the old man questioningly.

"Of course," father said. "Light up. Are you hungry? We can supply combat rations."

"No, thanks, counselor," he said. "I had an anchovy pizza an hour ago. I'm just stressed-out. The cognac will do fine."

"How are things going, Al?" I asked. "Making any progress?"

He flipped a palm back and forth. "Comme ci, comme ca. Right now I'm working with an Assistant State Attorney, a brainy lady, and we're trying to get a handle on our options and figure out the best deal we can make."

"Is Frank Gloriana talking?"

"Some. We've got him cold on the catnapping. The ransom notes were written on his word processor and he was found with the money. But he claims it was all Laverne Willigan's idea, and she was the one who snatched the cat. He says he played along because he's madly in love with her."

"Oh sure," I said. "I was afraid he'd pull something like that. Any chance at all of keeping La-verne's name out of it?"

"Very thin," Al said. "We're trying to work a deal with his lawyer. If Frank tells us what he knows about his parents' murder plot, charges may be reduced and he could get off with a fine and suspended sentence."

My father spoke up. "As you know, sergeant, I represent Harry Willigan, and I'm just as eager as Archy to keep Mrs. Willigan out of any court proceedings. I presume everything said here tonight is entre nous."

"If that means will I keep my mouth shut, the answer is yes."

"Good. Is this Frank Gloriana a man of means?"

"He's stone-broke. His lawyer will probably end up with Frank's office furniture as his fee."

"I see," father said thoughtfully. "Archy, to your knowledge, does Laverne have any liquid assets?"

"I don't know about her bank balance, father, but I do know she's got a heavy collection of jewelry. Gifts from Harry. Expensive things."

"Better and better. Perhaps, sergeant, you might suggest to Frank Gloriana's attorney that he have a confidential talk with Laverne Willigan. She might be willing to pawn or sell enough of her gems to provide funds for Frank's legal defense. In return, of course, he would avoid mentioning her name. But this arrangement, I strongly urge, should be approved only after Frank tells you what he knows of his parents' involvement in the Gillsworth homicides. Frank might be disinclined to agree to that but if you explain the deal thoroughly to his attorney, I expect he'll recommend that Frank accept it. Especially if the ASA promises to do what she can to have charges reduced."

"Yeah," Al said slowly, "that plot might work. We clear up a catnapping and Frank gives us what he has on the murders. He gets off with a slap on the wrist. His lawyer gets paid. And Laverne keeps her name out of it. Everyone wins. A slick plan, Mr. McNally. I'll bring it up with the ASA."

I saw that his cognac was gone and my glass was getting low. I rose and refilled our snifters without asking permission. My father made no objection although he had barely touched his drink.

"Okay, Al," I said, "so much for the catnapping. Now what's happening with the homicides?"

He sighed deeply. "This is where things get sticky. First of all, you've got to know the whole thing started with Roderick Gillsworth's obsession with Irma Gloriana. We're trying to get a court order to open her safe deposit box, but even without the letters he wrote her, we have the evidence of his holographic will and the erotic poems he started writing after he met her. It's obvious the guy was nuts about her. I'm not saying he was temporarily insane; let's just say that after meeting Irma he became mentally disadvantaged."

"But penniless," I observed.

"Right," Rogoff said. "Which wasn't the way to win Irma's heart. The lady is Queen of the Bottom Line. So Roderick, knowing he was slated to inherit most of his wife's estate, suggested Lydia be knocked off. Irma said she could get it done if Roderick would sign over his inherited wealth to her."

"Wait just a minute, please," my father interrupted. "That doesn't quite compute. Why did Roderick make Irma his beneficiary? The fee for the murder was going to someone else."

"I admit it's fuzzy," the sergeant said. "But I figure Roderick wanted to marry Irma after Lydia was dead. He didn't know Irma was already married. And she agreed to marry him when he was a widower only if he made her the sole beneficiary of his estate. I think Roderick executed that handwritten will and signed it cheerfully because he knew that if Irma reneged, he could cancel out the holographic will at any time by writing a more recent will that superseded it. Am I correct, counselor?"

"Yes," father said slowly, "that's generally true. The most recently executed will at the time of death takes precedence."

But he and I looked at each other. I know we were both troubled by the sergeant's tortuous explanation of why Roderick had made Irma his beneficiary.

"There is something you should know about that holographic will, sergeant," father said. "It was executed about a month ago. At that time Lydia Gillsworth was still alive. Florida statutes provide that the surviving spouse of a decedent has a right to thirty percent of the decedent's estate regardless of the provisions of the decedent's will."

Rogoff was startled. "You mean Gillsworth's holographic will was null and void when it was written?"

"Not necessarily," father replied. "But if Roderick had predeceased Lydia and had left a sizable estate, Lydia could either let his will stand or 'elect against the will,' as it's called, and claim her rightful thirty percent. But the whole question is moot because Lydia died before Roderick, and if he had predeceased her, he had no estate to leave."

Al and I exchanged a brief glance. I knew what he was thinking: If the whole matter was moot, why had Prescott McNally mentioned it? I could have told him: If there was a nit to be picked, my father would be the first to volunteer.

"Well," Rogoff said, shaking his head, "all I know is that when Roderick signed that handwritten will he signed his own death warrant. I figure Irma and Otto had it worked out from the start, but Roderick was too pussy-whipped to suspect it. First, they knocked off Lydia. That made Roderick a rich man. Then Roderick was snuffed. And that was supposed to make Irma wealthy according to the terms of his last will and testament."

"You're probably right, sergeant," father said, nodding. "It's a likely scenario. But how much of it can you prove?"

"That Otto bashed in Lydia's skull with a walking stick? Not sufficient evidence to make a case. But things are different with the murder of Roderick, framed to look like a suicide. The most important piece of hard evidence is that we found a package of single-edge razor blades in Cabin Four of the Jo-Jean Motel. Otto Gloriana shaved with them. The same brand was left on the bath mat beside Roderick Gillsworth's corpse."

Father was obviously disappointed. "Hardly conclusive evidence," he said.

"I agree, sir. But we have something much better. Irma Gloriana states she was with her husband when he entered Gillsworth's house to kill him. She claims she didn't witness the actual murder but that

Otto announced his intention to kill the poet beforehand and bragged about it afterward."

Both my father and I were astounded. "Why on earth would she admit that?" I said. "It makes her an accessory."

"Why?" Rogoff said disgustedly. "Because she thinks it'll get her off the hook. Otto is dead. He can't refute what she says or defend himself in any way, shape, or form. So his widow now says he was the sole killer. His motive, according to Irma, was to kill the man having an affair with his wife. He was aware of it, Irma says, and vowed revenge. He knew she had a dinner date at Gillsworth's home, put a gun to her head, and forced her to ring the doorbell so he could gain entrance to slit Roderick's wrists. She says she was in deathly fear of Otto, a man known to have a violent temper and who had already served time in prison. But she was totally innocent of complicity in Gillsworth's death, she claims. She was coerced, in fear of her life. But since she played no voluntary role in the homicide, she is free to walk and inherit Roderick's estate. A load of kaka-right? The only problem is that she may get away with it. It's the kind of story a jury just might buy if she ever comes to trial. And she's got an awfully smart lawyer who's probably charging her a nice hunk of Gillsworth's estate."