On my way back to the McNally Building I stopped at Harry Willigan's office. He was in his usual vile mood, and I wondered if he got his disposition from Peaches or if the cat had learned how to be nasty from her master.
He demanded to know what progress I was making in the search for his beloved pet. Very little, I told him, but my investigation would be aided if he'd let me have a photocopy of the ransom note.
"What the hell for?" he screamed at me.
I explained as patiently as I could that I wanted the letter analyzed by an expert. The vocabulary and grammar might enable the specialist to make some shrewd guesses as to the education, occupation, nationality, and social status of the writer. That wasn't total kaka, of course; there are analysts who can glean such information from the language of a document.
Finally, Willigan had his receptionist make a photocopy for me. I folded it carefully and tucked it into my jacket pocket along with the Gloriana flier. Then I left as quickly as I could, with Willigan shouting obscene threats of the mayhem he'd wreak if he ever got his hands on those effing catnappers. I believed him.
Back in my office, I found a message on my desk asking me to call Connie Garcia as soon as possible.
"Archy," she wailed, "about tonight-Lady Horowitz wants me to come back here after dinner and go over the budget for the Fourth of July shindig with her."
"Aw," I said, "that's too bad. Want to postpone our date?"
"No," she said definitely. "I haven't seen you in ages. Instead of driving to Lantana for chili, we'll grab a bite at the Pelican Club and you can get me back here by eight-thirty or so. Okay?"
"Sure," I said, much relieved that I wouldn't have to incinerate my uvula two nights in a row. "But I guess that means no fun and games later. I'm disappointed."
"Me, too," she confessed. "It's been so long that every time I sneeze, dust comes out my ears."
"We'll have to do something about that," I said.
Long pause. Then, suspiciously:
"You haven't been making nice-nice with that Meg Trumble, have you, Archy?"
"Who?"
She sighed. "Now it's coming out your ears, and it's not dust. If I discover you've been cheating, you know what'll happen to you, don't you?"
"I'll be singing soprano?"
"You've got it, son," she said. "See you tonight."
She hung up, and I sat there a few minutes remembering that her Latin temper was not to be trifled with. Once, during our initial liaison, she had caught me dining with another young lady and had dumped a bowl of linguine Bolognese on my head. Took me a week of shampoos to get rid of all those damned chicken livers.
It was a dangerous game I was playing, I reflected mournfully, and wondered if a vow of celibacy might be the answer. But then I recalled Hertha Gloriana's prediction: my problem would eventually be solved, and not by me. A welcome thought. I had enough bad habits without adding chastity.
I took the Gloriana flier from my pocket and reread it. Mommy didn't raise her boy to be an idiot, and my first reaction was that the offer of individualized psychic profiles was a scoundrelly con game. I figured the Glorianas had printed up a standard profile they mailed back to all the suckers, similar to those canned horoscopes you can buy at newsstands.
But, despite my cynicism, I found it hard to believe Hertha Gloriana was an out-and-out swindler. Husband Frank-the business manager-could be a flimflam artist capable of cutting a shady deal. But not Hertha, not that soft, vulnerable waif. Her eyes were too blue. How's that for logical deduction?
But there was a way I could test Hertha's bona fides, and I resolved to launch my mini-plot that evening. I was certain Connie Garcia would cooperate. She'd think it was a hoot.
Musing about the Glorianas and the apparently thriving business they owned, I realized how little I knew about parapsychology. I decided it was time I learned more about what I was investigating. I phoned Lydia Gillsworth. It was then almost noon.
"Oh, Archy," she said after an exchange of cordial greetings, "I do hope this isn't about that stupid letter I received."
"Not at all," I said, lying valiantly. "This call includes a confession and a request. I was so interested in what you told me about Hertha Gloriana the other day that I went to see her this morning. I used your name shamelessly. I hope you don't object."
"Of course not. Isn't she a remarkable woman?"
"She is that," I said. "And lovely."
"Careful, Archy," Mrs. Gillsworth said, laughing. "Hertha is happily married, and Frank carries a gun."
That shook me. "Why on earth would he do that?"
"He says it's just a precaution. Sometimes they have to deal with irrational or deeply disturbed people."
"I can imagine," I said. "The lunatic fringe."
"Exactly," she said. "If you don't mind my asking, why did you consult Hertha?"
I told her my loopy story about the close friend whose beloved cat was missing and how I had asked Mrs. Gloriana to visualize the pet's present whereabouts. Lydia didn't think my request unusual at all.
"I'm sure Hertha will be able to help," she said. "She's very good at locating lost things. She told Laverne Willigan where to find her pearl earrings."
I suspect that if I had been wearing dentures they might have popped out at that moment. I know my jaw flopped open and I stared about wildly to make certain the world was still there.
"And where were the earrings?" I asked hoarsely.
"Behind her dresser drawer. They had caught on the inside molding."
"I know Mrs. Willigan," I said as casually as I
could. "Her husband is a client of ours. Does La-verne attend those seances Mrs. Gloriana holds?"
"Oh yes, she never misses a session."
I didn't want to push it any farther.
"That's another part of my confession, Mrs. Gillsworth," I said. "I asked Hertha if I might sit in on one of your meetings. She said I could, and have you bring me to the next gathering."
"Of course," she said. "As a matter of fact, there's one tonight at seven o'clock."
"Ah, what a shame," I said. "I have a dinner date I dare not break. Well, I'll make certain I'm at the next one, with your kind assistance. And now the request: I'd like to learn more about spiritualism, and I wondered if you had any books on the subject you'd be willing to lend me. Return guaranteed. I'm especially intrigued about the possibility of contacting those who have, uh, departed this life for existence on another plane."
"Oh, Archy, I have a whole library of books on the subject. You'll find them fascinating, I'm sure. Suppose I select three or four that will give you the basic information on our beliefs."
"I'd certainly appreciate that. When may I pick them up?"
"Let me see. . I have a little shopping to do, but I should be back around two o'clock. Can you stop by then?"
"Love to. Thank you so much for all your help, Mrs. Gillsworth."
I drove home for lunch and found I had the McNally manse to myself. Mother and the Olsons had departed on a shopping safari to replenish our larder, but a note left on the kitchen table informed me that a Caesar salad, heavy on the garlic, had been prepared for my pleasure and was chilling in the fridge.
I had a glass of California chablis with the salad and popped a few fresh strawberries for dessert. Then I trudged upstairs to my digs, donned my reading specs, and placed the photocopy of Peaches' ransom note next to the poison-pen letter sent to Lydia Gillsworth. I compared them carefully, and to my inexpert eye they definitely appeared to have been composed on the same machine.
Even more telling, both documents included the word "horrendous." That is not an adjective commonly used in written communications. What could I think but that both letters had quite likely been written by the same person? It was not hard evidence, I admit, but I was more convinced than ever that the catnapping and the threats against Mrs. Gillsworth were somehow connected.
I started to scrawl notes in my journal about the morning encounter with Hertha and Frank Gloriana, but I tossed my gold Mont Blanc aside, unable to concentrate.
What was confounding me was Laverne Willigan's apparent interest in spiritualism. She always seemed to me such a physical woman, whose main enthusiasms were chocolate eclairs, tanning her hide, and amassing expensive baubles. It came as a shock to hear she attended seances.
It was obvious I had misjudged Laverne; she was more than a featherbrain with a zoftig bod. It made me wonder if my opinions of other actors in this drama were similarly in error. Perhaps Harry Willigan, beneath his bluster, was a devotee of macrame, and Frank Gloriana a keen student of the bass lute. Anything, I concluded glumly, was possible.
But my sour mood dissipated as I drove southward to my meeting with Lydia Gillsworth. Now there was a woman who harbored no hidden passions or guilts; I was ready to swear to that. She was complete and without artifice.
She was waiting for me in a sitting room that was an aquarium of light. She had just purchased several twig baskets of dried flowers, and their presence made the room seem like a country garden. She took such an innocent joy in the hydrangea, pepper-berries, and love-in-a-mist that her pleasure was infectious. I requested and received a pink straw-flower to place in the buttonhole of my Technicolor jacket.
She had three books ready for me, neatly stacked in a small Saks shopping bag.
"Now, Archy," she said, "you must promise to read these slowly and completely."
"I promise," I vowed.
"Your first reaction," she went on, "will be laughter. You'll say to yourself, 'What nonsense this is!' But if you open your mind and heart to these ideas you'll find yourself wondering if the whole concept might not be true. Do try to wonder, Archy."
"I shall."
"You must not think about spiritualism in a logical manner," she said severely. "It is not a philosophy; it is a faith. So don't try to analyze. Just let the belief enter into you and see if it doesn't answer a lot of questions you've always asked."
She was so sincere and earnest that I was more impressed by her than by her words. Mr. Webster defines "nice" as, among other things, "well-bred, virtuous, respectable." Lydia Gillsworth was all of that, I thought, and observing her eager efforts to set me on the right path, I felt great affection for her.
Among the zillion problems I've never been able to solve is whether there can ever be a true friendship between a man and a woman if sexual attraction is totally lacking. I'm just not sure. But at that moment, in Mrs. Gillsworth's sunlit country garden, listening to her quiet voice and gazing into her limpid eyes, I did feel a kinship that I believed came near to love.
I thanked her for the books and rose to leave. She came close and held me by the shoulders. She gave me a smile of surpassing warmth.
"Be prepared, Archy," she said, almost mischievously. "These books may change your life."
"Any change would be an improvement," I said, and she laughed and leaned forward to kiss my cheek.
I returned home thinking what a sweet woman she was. I felt empathy for the terror those dreadful letters aroused in Roderick Gillsworth. It may sound odd to you, but I now considered threats against Lydia's life an act of blasphemy; that's how convinced I was of her goodness.
Back in my cave, I did little more than glance at the books she had loaned me. I read the introductions and scanned the chapter headings, then tossed the volumes aside. Oh, I planned to read them in their entirety eventually, but I knew it would be heavy going.
I went for my ocean swim, dutifully attended the family cocktail hour, and at seven o'clock that evening I was waiting in the driveway of the Lady Cynthia Horowitz estate, having announced my arrival to the housekeeper. Ten minutes later Con-suela Garcia came scampering out, slid into the Miata, and away we went.
I don't care how exacting your standards may be,
I assure you, male or female, that if you ever saw Connie you'd think me a dolt for casting a libidinous eye at any other woman. She is not beautiful in a conventional way, but she is certainly attractive and so sparkling that she could persuade a golem to dance a gavotte.
She is rather shortish and plumpish, but she sports a year-round tan and usually lets her long, glossy black hair float free. I think I mentioned previously that I once saw her in a string bikini. More impressive than Mount Rushmore, I assure you.
That evening she was wearing a white silk shirt with white denim jeans. Atop her head was a jaunty straw boater with a cerise silk band. It had once been my hat, and it still rankled that it looked better on her than it had on me. All in all, she looked so fetching that once again I lamented my philandering. I suspect it may be due to a defective gene.
I was happy to see the Pelican Club was not too mobbed when we arrived. Priscilla was able to seat us at a corner table in the dining area.
"Just right for lovebirds," she said, and looked at me. "Or should I say one lovebird and one cuckoo."
"What sass!" I said. Then to Connie: "It's so hard to get good help these days."
"Watch yourself, Simon Legree," Priscilla said, "or I'll tell pop to slip a Mickey in your margarita."
"In that case I'll have a vodka gimlet," I said. "Connie?"
"Ditto," she said. "Pris, what's Leroy pushing tonight?"
"Yellowtail with saffron rice and an endive salad."
That's what we both ordered, and after our drinks were brought, I wasted no time in broaching my nefarious plot. I handed Connie the Glorianas' flier advertising individualized psychic profiles. She read it swiftly and then looked up at me.
"A swindle?" she asked.
"I think so," I said. "I'd like to prove it, and you can help. Have you ever met Hertha or Frank Gloriana?"
"Nope."
"Do you think they've ever heard of you?"
"I doubt it."
"Good," I said. "Now here's what I'd like you to do: Answer the ad in your own name from your home address. But make up a completely phony woman. Fake the date and place of birth. Fake the names of parents and grandparents. Buy some cheap gimcrack and send it along as this nonexistent woman's personal possession. I want to see what kind of a psychic profile you'll get for an imaginary person."
Connie laughed. "You're a tricky boyo, you know that? You really think the Glorianas will provide an analysis of a make-believe woman?"
"For a hundred bucks they will," I said. "I'll bet on it. Send a personal check along with your letter, and I'll make sure you get reimbursed. Will you do it?"
"Of course," she said. "It'll be fun. But why are you going to so much trouble, Archy?"
I had a con ready.
"An elderly gent is addicted to the mumbo jumbo the Glorianas are peddling. He's spending a fortune on private seances, fake demonstrations of telepathy and psychokinesis, and similar stuff. His grown children, our clients, are furious, figuring the old man is wasting their inheritance. They think the Glorianas are frauds. My father told me to investigate."
Connie bought it.
"Okay," she said, "I'll order a psychic profile for a woman who doesn't exist. Ah, here's our food. Now shut up and let me eat."
"Yes, ma'am," I said.
We finished dinner in record time, stopped at the bar for ponies of Frangelico, and then I drove Connie back to the Horowitz mansion.
"Sorry you have to work late," I said. "Next time we'll make a night of it."
"We better," she said. "Archy, tell the truth. Have you been faithful to me?"
I avoided a direct lie, as is my wont. Subterfuge is the name of the game.
"Connie," I said somberly, "I must be honest. Last week I flipped through a Playboy in the barbershop, and I confess I had lust in my heart."
She tried not to laugh but failed. "Just make sure it stays in your heart," she said, "and doesn't migrate southward. Thanks for the dinner, luv."
She gave me a very nice kiss, slid out of the Miata, and stalked back to her office. I waited until she was safely inside, and then I drove home singing "If You Knew Susie-Like I Know Susie." Actually, I've never met a woman named Susie, but one never knows, do one?
When I pulled into our driveway I saw Roderick Gillsworth's gray Bentley parked on the turnaround. The windows of my father's study were lighted, and he came out into the hallway when I entered.
"Archy," he said, "Gillsworth just arrived with bad news. Join us, please."
The poet was slumped in a leather club chair, biting at a thumbnail. The governor went behind his massive desk and I pulled up a straight chair.
"Another letter arrived today," my father said grimly and gestured toward a foolscap lying on the desk blotter. "Even more despicable than the others. And more frightening."
I hardly heard his final comments. I was thinking of "Another letter arrived today" and wondering why Lydia Gillsworth hadn't mentioned it. But perhaps she had. I recalled that during our telephone conversation, she had said, "I hope this isn't about that stupid letter I received." I had assumed she was speaking about the previous letter, not referring to a new one.
"Well, Archy?" father demanded impatiently, and I realized he had asked me something that simply hadn't registered.
"I beg your pardon, sir," I said. "Would you repeat the question?"
He stared at me, obviously saddened by the imbecile he had sired. "I asked if you had made any progress at all in identifying the writer of this filth."
"No, sir," I said, and let it go at that.
Gillsworth groaned. "What are we going to do?" he said, his last word rising to a falsetto.
I had never seen the man more distraught. In addition to the nail biting, he was blinking furiously and seemed unable to control a curious tremor of his jaw; it looked as if he was chewing rapidly.
"Mr. Gillsworth," I said, "I really think the police should be brought in. Or if your wife continues to forbid it, then private security guards should be hired. Round-the-clock. It will be costly, but I feel it's necessary until the perpetrator can be found."
The seigneur fell into one of those semi-trances that signified he was giving my proposal heavy thought, examining the pros and cons, and considering all the options in-between.
"Yes," he said finally, "I think that would be wise. Mr. Gillsworth, we have dealt several times in the past with a security service that provides personal guards. We have always found their personnel trustworthy and reliable. May I have permission to employ guards for your wife, twenty-four hours a day?"
"Oh God, yes!" Gillsworth cried, his skinny arms flapping. "Just the thing! Why didn't I think of it?"
"Where is Mrs. Gillsworth at the moment?" I asked.
"She went to a seance this evening," he said. "She should be home by now. May I use your phone?"
"Of course," father said.
Gillsworth stood, walked rather shakily to the desk phone, and dialed his number. He held the receiver clamped tightly to his head. While we all waited, I noted how he was perspiring. His face was sheened with sweat, and there was even a drop trembling at the tip of his avian honker. Poor devil, I thought; I knew exactly how he felt.
Finally he hung up. "She's not home," he said hollowly.
"No cause for alarm," my father said. "She may have stayed a few extra moments at the seance. She drove her own car?"
"Yes," the poet said. "A Caprice. I don't understand why she isn't home. She's rarely late."
"She may be delayed by traffic. Try again in five or ten minutes. Meanwhile, I suggest we all have a brandy. Archy, will you do the honors?"
I welcomed the assignment. In truth, I had caught Gillsworth's fear and needed a bit of Dutch courage. I went to the marble-topped sideboard and poured generous tots into three snifters. I served the poet and father.
Gillsworth finished half of his drink in one gulp and gasped. "Yes," he said, "that helps. Thank you."
"Father," I said, "when you talk to the security people about personal guards, I think it might be smart to ask that female operatives be assigned. I believe Mrs. Gillsworth might be more inclined to accept the constant presence of women rather than men."
"Yes, yes!" Gillsworth said, animated by the cognac and flapping his arms again. "You're quite right. A capital idea!"
The senior McNally nodded. "Good thinking, Archy," he said, and I felt I had been pardoned for my earlier inattention. "Mr. Gillsworth, would you have any objection if the female guard or guards actually moved into your home? Temporarily, of course."
"None at all," the poet said. "We have extra bedrooms. I'd welcome the presence of someone who'll watch over Lydia every minute I'm not with her. May I use the phone again?"
"Naturally," father said.
He called, and a moment later I saw his entire body relax and he actually grinned.
"You're home, Lydia," he said heartily. "All safe and sound? Good. Doors and windows locked? Glad to hear it. I'm at the McNallys', dear, and I should be home in fifteen minutes or so. See you soon."
He hung up and rubbed his palms together briskly. "All's well," he reported. "I'll stay with her until your security people arrive. When do you think that will be?"
"Probably early in the morning," father told him. "I'll call the night supervisor, and he can get things started. I'll request a female guard be sent to your home early tomorrow. Will that be satisfactory?"
"Eminently," Gillsworth said, and finished his brandy. "I feel a lot better now. I'm going to tell Lydia I insist the guards remain until this whole horrible mess is cleared up. Thank you for your help, Mr. McNally-and you too, Archy. I better go now."
"I'll see you to your car," my father said. "Please wait here for me, Archy."
He went out with the client, and I sneaked another quick cognac. Just a small one.
My father returned and regained his throne. "Personal guards are an excellent idea," he said. "I only hope Mrs. Gillsworth doesn't refuse them."
"I don't believe she will, sir," I said. "Especially if it's explained that their assignment will not be made public. But I still think the police should be informed of the letters. Granted they cannot provide round-the-clock surveillance, but they might be able to trace the source of the paper used and identify the make of the printing machine that was used."
Father looked at me steadily. "Then you were telling the truth? You've made no progress at all?"
"That's not completely accurate," I admitted, "but what I have is so slight that I didn't want to mention it in Gillsworth's presence."
Then I told him of Hertha and Frank Gloriana, who might or might not be frauds, and how Lydia attended their seances. I said nothing about La-verne Willigan's connection with the Glorianas, nor did I mention that I believed the poison-pen letters and Peaches' ransom note had been composed on the same word processor by the same author.
Why didn't I tell my father these things? Because they were very thin gruel indeed, vague hypotheses that would probably make no sense to anyone but me. Also, I must admit, I didn't want to tell the pater everything I knew because he was so learned, so wise, so far my intellectual superior. What I was implying by my reticence was "I know something you don't know!" Childish? You bet.
He looked at me, somewhat bewildered. "You think the Glorianas are responsible for the threatening letters?"
"I just don't know, sir. But Mrs. Gillsworth gave me no other names. Apparently she's convinced that no one in her social circle-relatives, friends, acquaintances-could possibly be capable of anything like that. So Hertha Gloriana is the only lead I have."
"It's not much," he said.
"No," I agreed, "it's not. But they do say the medium is the message."
He gave me a sour smile. "Well, stay on it," he commanded, "and keep me informed. Now I must call the security-"
But just then his phone rang.
He broke off speaking and stared at it a moment.
"Now who on earth can that be?" he said and picked it up.
"Prescott McNally," he said crisply. Then:
"What? What? Oh my God. Yes. Yes, of course. We'll be there immediately."
He hung up slowly and turned a bleak face to me.
"Lydia Gillsworth is dead," he said. "Murdered."
I don't often weep but I did that night.
We later learned that Roderick Gillsworth had called 911 before phoning my father. By the time we arrived at the poet's home, the police were there and we were not allowed inside. I was glad to see Sgt. A1 Rogoff was the senior officer present and apparently in charge of the investigation.
Father and I sat in the Lexus and waited as patiently as we could. I don't believe we exchanged a dozen words; we were both stunned by the tragedy. His face was closed, and I stared unseeing at the starry sky and hoped Lydia Gillsworth had passed to a higher plane.
Finally, close to midnight, Rogoff came out of the house and lumbered over to the Lexus. A1 played the good ol' boy because he thought it would further his career. But I happened to know he was a closet intellectual and a ballet maven. Other Florida cops might enjoy discussing the methods of Fred Bundy; the sergeant preferred talking about the technique of Rudolf Nureyev.
"Mr. McNally," he said, addressing my father, "we're about to tape a voluntary statement by Roderick Gillsworth. He'd like you to be present. So would I, just to make sure everything is kosher."
"Of course," father said, climbing out of the car. "Thank you for suggesting it."
"Al-" I started.
"You stay out here, Archy," he commanded in his official voice. "We've already got a mob scene in there."
"I have something important to tell you," I said desperately.
"Later," he said, and he and my father marched into the Gillsworth home.
So I sat alone for another hour, watching police officers and technicians from a fire-rescue truck search the grounds with flashlights and big lanterns. Finally Rogoff came out of the house alone and stood by my open window peeling the cellophane wrapper from one of his big cigars.
"Your father is going to stay the night," he reported. "With Gillsworth. He says to tell you to drive home. He'll phone when he wants to be picked up."
I was shocked. "You mean Gillsworth wants to sleep in this house tonight? We could put him up or he could go to a hotel."
"Your father suggested it, but Gillsworth wants to stay here. It's okay; I'll leave a couple of men on the premises."
Then we were silent, watching as a wheeled stretcher was brought out of the house. The body was covered with a black rubber sheet. The stretcher was slid into the back of a police ambulance, the door slammed. The vehicle pulled slowly away, the siren beginning to moan.
"Al," I said as steadily as I could, "how was she killed?"
"Hit on the head repeatedly with a walking stick. It had a heavy silver spike for a handle. Pierced her skull."
"Don't tell me it was in the shape of a unicorn."
He stared at me. "How did you know?"
"She showed it to me. She brought it back from up north as a gift for her husband. He collected antique canes."
"Yeah, I saw his collection. Is that what you wanted to tell me?"
"No. Something else. Remember my asking you about poison-pen letters? Lydia Gillsworth was the person getting them."
"Son of a bitch," the sergeant said bitterly. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because she refused to let us take it to the police. And if we had, would you have provided twenty-four-hour protection?"
"Probably not," he conceded. "Where are the letters now?"
"At home."
"How's about you drive me there and hand them over. Then drive me back here. Okay? You weren't planning to get to bed early, were you?"
"Not tonight," I said. "Let's go."
I drove, and Al sat beside me juicing up his cigar.
"Tell me what happened," I asked him.
"Not a lot to tell," he said. "Gillsworth was at your place, talked to his wife on the phone, told her he'd see her soon. He says he drove directly home. Says he found the front door open although she had told him all doors and windows were locked. She was facedown in the sitting room. Signs of a violent struggle. Spatters of blood everywhere. Baskets of flowers knocked to the floor. A grandfather clock tipped over. It had stopped about ten minutes before Gillsworth arrived."
"My God," I said, "he almost walked in on a kill-ing."
"Uh-huh."
"Did he see anyone when he drove up?"
"Says not."
"Anything stolen?"
"Doesn't look like it. He can't spot anything missing."
"How's he taking it?"
"Hard. He's trying to do the stiff-upper-lip bit, but it's not working."
"She was a lovely woman, Al."
"She's not now," he said in the flat tones he used when he wanted to conceal his emotions.
When we entered the house, mother was waiting in the hallway. She wore a nightgown under a tatty flannel robe, and her feet were thrust into fluffy pink mules. She glanced at Sgt. Rogoff in his uniform, then put a hand against the wall to steady herself.
"Archy," she said, "what's wrong? Where is father? Has he been hurt?"
"He's all right," I said. "He's at the Gillsworth home. Mother, I'm sorry to tell you that Lydia has been killed."
She closed her eyes and swayed. I stepped close and gripped her arm.
"A car accident?" she asked weakly.
I didn't answer that. One shock at a time.
"Father will be staying with Gillsworth tonight,"
I said. "I came back with the sergeant to pick up some papers."
She didn't respond. Her eyes remained closed and I could feel her trembling under my hand.
"Mother," I said, "it's been a bad night, and the sergeant and I could use a cup of black coffee. Would you make it for us?"
I hoped that giving her a task would help, and it did. She opened her eyes and straightened.
"Of course," she said. "I'll put the kettle on right away. Would you like a sandwich, sergeant?"
"Thank you, no, ma'am," he said gently. "The coffee will do me fine."
Mother bustled into the kitchen, and I led Rogoff into my father's study. The letter was still lying on the desk blotter.
"There it is," I told Al. "Both the Gillsworths handled it but not my father and not me. Maybe you'll be able to bring up some usable prints."
"Fat chance," he growled, sat down behind the desk, and leaned forward to read.
"That was the third letter received," I said. "The first was destroyed by Gillsworth. The second is upstairs in my rooms. I'll get it for you."
A few moments later I returned with the second letter in the manila folder. I did not bring along the photocopy of Peaches' ransom note. Willigan had told us, "No cops!" And he was paying the hourly rate.
Rogoff had his cigar burning and was leaning back in my father's chair. He read the second letter and tossed the folder onto the desk.
"Ugly stuff," he said.
"A psycho?" I suggested.
"Maybe," he said. "Maybe someone trying to make us think they were written by a psycho."
"What will you do with the letters?"
"Send them to the FBI lab. Try to find out the make of machine used, the paper, the ink, and so forth. See if they've got any similar letters in their files."
"Even right-hand margins," I pointed out.
"Oh, you noticed that, did you? Got to be a word processor or electronic typewriter. We'll see. How about that coffee?"
When we entered the kitchen, mother was filling our cups. And she had put out a plate of Ursi Olson's chocolate-chip cookies, bless her.
"The coffee is instant," she said anxiously to Rog-off. "Is that all right?"
"The only kind I drink," he said, smiling at her. "Thank you for your trouble, Mrs. McNally."
"No trouble at all," she assured him. "I'll leave you men alone now."
We sat opposite each other at the kitchen table, hunching over our coffee and nibbling cookies.
"You suspect the husband, don't you?" I said.
The sergeant shrugged. "I've got to, Archy. Sev-enty-five percent of homicides are committed by the spouse, a relative, a friend, or acquaintance. These cookies are great."
"She was alive when he left here, Al," I reminded him. "He talked to her on the phone. You think he drove home and killed her?"
"Doesn't seem likely, does it?" he said slowly. "But what really helps him is that there were no bloodstains on his clothes. I told you that place looked like a slaughterhouse. Blood everywhere. The killer had to get splashed. What was Gillsworth wearing when he left here?"
I thought a moment. "White linen sports jacket, pale blue polo shirt, light gray flannel slacks."
Rogoff nodded. "That's what he was wearing when we got there. And he looked fresh as a daisy. His clothes, I mean. Absolutely unstained. And he sure didn't have enough time to change into identical duds. Also, we searched the house. No bloodstained clothes anywhere."
We sipped our coffee, ate more cookies. The sergeant relighted his cold cigar.
"So Gillsworth is off the hook?" I asked.
"I didn't say that. He's probably clean, but I've got to check out the timing. A lot depends on that. How long did it take him to drive from here to his place? Also, what time did the victim leave the seance? How long would it take her to drive home? What time did she arrive? Was someone waiting for her? There's a lot I don't know. After I find out, maybe Gillsworth will be off the hook. Right now he's all I've got."
I stared at him. "Al, is there something you're not telling me?"
"Would I do that?"
"Sure you would," I said. "Look, I know this is your case. You wear the badge; you're the law. You can order me to butt out. You're entitled to do that. But I'm telling you now I'm not going to do it. That woman meant a lot to me. So no matter what you say, I'm going to keep digging."
He looked at me strangely. "That's okay," he said. "You stay on it. Just keep me up to speed-all right?"
We finished our coffee, went to the study where Rogoff collected the letters. When we came out into the hallway mother was waiting with a small overnight bag.
"I packed father's pajamas, robe, and slippers," she said. "And his shaving gear and a fresh shirt for tomorrow morning."
I'll never cease to be amazed at how practical women can be, even under stress. I imagine that when the flood came and Noah was herding everyone aboard the ark, Mrs. Noah plucked at his sleeve and asked, "Did you remember to empty the pan under the icebox?"
Rogoff took the little valise and promised to deliver it to father. This time I drove the open Miata; after inhaling Al's cigar, I wanted fresh air-lots of it.
We didn't speak on the trip back to the Gillsworth home. But when we arrived and the sergeant climbed out, he paused a moment.
"Archy, I know Roderick Gillsworth was your father's client. Was Mrs. Gillsworth?"
"Yes, she was."
"I hear she had plenty of money. Did your father draw her will?"
"I don't know, Al. Probably."
"Who inherits?"
"I don't know that either. Ask my father."
Then I drove back to the McNally fiefdom for the final time that night. I feared I'd have trouble getting to sleep but I didn't. First I recited a brief prayer for a noble lady. I consider myself an agnostic-but just in case. .
The weekend had started badly and didn't improve. The weather was no help; Saturday morning was dull and logy-just the way I felt when I awoke. I had an OJ, cinnamon bun, and coffee with Jamie Olson in the kitchen. He was wrapping a fresh Band-Aid around the cracked stem of his ancient briar. I had given him a gold-banded Dupont for Christmas, but he saved it for Sunday smoking.
"Heard about Mrs. Gillsworth," he said in a low voice. "Too bad."
"Yes," I said. "It was in the papers?"
"Uh-huh. And on the TV."
"Jamie, if you hear anything about enemies she may have had, or maybe an argument with someone, I wish you'd let me know."
"Sure," he said. "You asked about that Mrs. Wil-ligan."
"So I did. What about her?"
"She's got a guy."
"Oh?" I said and took a gulp of my coffee. "Where did you hear that?"
"Around."
"Know who it is?"
"Nope. No one knows."
"Then how do they know she's got a guy?"
He looked up at me. "The women know," he said, and added sagely, "They always know."
"I guess," I said and sighed.
I went back upstairs to work on my journal. It was a slow, gloomy morning, and I couldn't seem to get the McNally noodle into gear. I was stuck in neutral and all I could think about was pink lemonade and strawflowers in twig baskets. It wasn't the first time a friend had died, but never so suddenly and so violently. It made me want to telephone every friend I had and say, "I love you." I knew that was goofy but that's the way I felt.
My phone rang about ten-thirty, and I thought it would be my father asking me to come fetch him. But it was Leon Medallion, the Willigans' houseman.
"Hiya, Mr. McNally," he said breezily. "Soupy weather-right?"
"Right," I said. "What's up, Leon?"
"Remember asking me about the cat carrier? Well, I found it. It was in the utility room, where it's supposed to be. I guess I missed it the first time I looked."
"That's probably what happened," I said. "Thanks for calling, Leon."
I hung up and the old cerebrum slipped into gear. Not for a moment did I think Medallion had missed spotting Peaches' carrier on his first search of the utility room. Then it was gone. Now it had been returned. Puzzling. And even more intriguing was the fact that I had mentioned the carrier's disappearance to Meg Trumble.
I was still diddling with that nonplus when my phone rang again. This time it was my father, announcing he was ready to return. He specifically requested that I drive the Lexus. He didn't have to say that; I knew very well he thought riding in my red two-seater dented his dignity.
He was waiting outside when I arrived at the Gillsworth home. He placed his overnight bag in the back and motioned for me to slide over to the passenger side so he could get behind the wheel. He thinks I drive too fast. But then he thinks motorized wheelchairs go too fast.
"I'm going to drop you at home, Archy," he said, "and then go to the office. Gillsworth wants me to inform his wife's relatives."
"Shouldn't he be doing that, sir?"
"He should but he's still considerably shaken and asked me to handle it. Not a task I welcome. Also, I want to review Lydia's will."
"Did Sergeant Rogoff question you about that?"
"He did, and Gillsworth had no objection to full disclosure. To the best of my recollection, she left several specific bequests to nieces, nephews, an aunt, and her alma mater. But the bulk of her estate goes to her husband."
"Hefty?" I asked.
"Quite," he said. "I told the sergeant all that, and he asked for the names and addresses of the beneficiaries. He is a very thorough man."
"Yes, sir," I agreed, "he is that. He wants me to continue my investigation of the poison-pen letters."
"So he said. I also want you to, Archy. Lydia was a fine lady, and I would not care to see this crime go unsolved or her murderer unpunished."
"Nor would I, father. Do you know where Rogoff is now?"
"He came to the Gillsworth home early this morning. He was driving his pickup, and with Roderick's permission he loaded the grandfather clock into the truck and drove off with it."
"The clock that was tipped over during the assault?"
"Yes."
"What on earth does Al want with that?"
"He didn't say. Here we are. Please take my overnight bag inside and tell mother I'll be at the office. I'll phone her later."
I followed his instructions and then went into his study and used his phone to call the Glorianas' office. I wasn't certain mediums worked on Saturdays, but Frank Gloriana answered, and I identified myself.
"Ah, yes, Mr. McNally," he said. "About the missing cat … I intended to contact you on Monday."
"Then you have news for me?"
"My wife has news," he corrected me. "When might you be able to stop by?"
"Now," I said. "If that's all right."
"Just let me check the appointment book," he said so smoothly that I was convinced he was scam-ming me again. "Well, I see we have a very busy afternoon ahead of us, but if you can arrive within the hour I'm sure we can fit you in."
"Thank you so much," I said, playing Uriah Heep. "I'll be there."
Mother wanted me to stay for lunch, but I had no appetite at all. And besides, I had recently noted that the waistbands of my slacks were shrinking alarmingly. So I went upstairs and pulled on a silver-gray Ultrasuede sport jacket over my violet polo shirt. Then I went outside and jumped into the Miata for the trip to West Palm Beach.
As I've mentioned before, basically I'm a cheery sort of chap, and that black cloud that had been hovering over my head since I heard of Lydia Gillsworth's death began to lift as I drove westward. That doesn't mean I ceased to mourn, of course, or that I was any less determined to avenge her. But the world continues to spin, and one must continue to spin along with it or step off. And I wasn't ready to do that.
Actually, I hadn't called the Glorianas to inquire about Peaches. The fate of that miserable felid was small spuds compared to finding the killer of Lydia Gillsworth. But I reckoned the cat's disappearance would serve as a good excuse for seeing the medium again. Not only did I want to learn more about her relationship to Lydia, but the woman herself fascinated me.
When I entered the Glorianas' suite there was no crush of clients Frank had forecast during our phone conversation. In fact, he was alone in that mauve and aqua office, listlessly turning the pages of a magazine and looking bored out of his skull. He glanced up as I came in, put the magazine aside, and rose to greet me.
He was wearing an Armani double-breasted in taupe gabardine and sporting a regimental tie. It happened to be the stripe of the Royal Glasgow Yeomanry, a regiment of which I doubted he had ever been a member. We shook hands, and he reached to stroke the sleeve of my Ultrasuede jacket.
"Nice," he said. "Would you mind telling me what it cost?"
I knew then he was no gentleman. "I don't know," I said. "It was a gift." I think he guessed I was lying, but I didn't care.
He nodded and turned back to his desk. "I'll tell Hertha you're here," he said, then paused with his hand on the phone. "We heard about Lydia Gillsworth," he said. "Dreadful thing."
"Yes," I said, "wasn't it."
He pushed a button, spoke softly into the phone, and hung up. "She's ready for you," he reported. "This way, please."
He again conducted me down the hallway to his wife's chamber. There were two other closed doors in that corridor but they were unmarked, and I had no idea what lay behind them. Gloriana ushered me into the medium's sanctum, then withdrew.
She was standing alongside her high-backed chair, and when the door closed she came floating forward to place her hands on my shoulders. I marveled at how petite she was: a very small wraith indeed, and seemingly fragile.
"Lydia has gone over," she said in that muted voice, "and you are desolated."
"It was a shock," I agreed. "I still find it hard to accept."
She nodded, led me to her wing chair, and insisted
I sit there. She remained standing before me. I thought it an awkward position for a conversation, but it didn't seem to trouble her.
"Did Lydia tell you how she felt about physical death?" she asked.
"Yes, she did."
"Then you must believe the spirit we both knew still exists. This is not the only world, you know."
She said that with such conviction that I could not doubt her sincerity. But I thought her a world-class fruitcake. Strangely, her feyness made her more attractive to me. I'm a foursquare hedonist myself, but I've always been intrigued by otherworldly types. They live as if they're collecting Frequent Flier points for a one-way trip to the hereafter.
"Mrs. Gloriana," I started, but she held up a soft palm.
"Please," she said, "call me Hertha. I feel a great kinship with you. May I call you Archy?"
"Of course," I said, pleased. "Hertha, Lydia promised to bring me to one of your seances. In fact, she suggested the meeting last evening, but I was unable to make it. Perhaps if I had, things might have turned out differently."
"No," she said, staring at me, "nothing would have changed. Do not blame yourself."
I hadn't, but it was sweet of her to comfort me.
"I would still like to attend one of your gatherings. Would that be possible?"
She was silent for a long moment, and I wondered if I was to be rejected.
"There will be no more sessions until October, Archy," she said finally. "So many people have gone north for the summer."
The off-season seemed a curious reason to halt spirit communication, but I supposed the medium charged per communicant, so there was a good commercial justification for it.
"Do you ever hold private seances?" I asked. "Could that be arranged?"
She turned and began to move back and forth, hugging her elbows. She was wearing a flowered dress of some gossamer stuff, and it wafted as she paced.
"Perhaps," she said. "But the chances of success would be lessened. The psychic power of a circle of believers is naturally much stronger than that of an individual. I could ask Frank and his mother to join us. Would that be acceptable?"
"Of course."
"And do you have a friend or two you could bring along? Individuals who are sympathetic to spiritualism even if they are not yet firm believers?"
"Yes, I think I could provide at least one person like that."
"Very well," she said. "I'll plan a session and let you know when arrangements have been finalized."
Her language surprised me. She spoke as if she was scheduling a corporate teleconference.
"Fine," I said. "I'm looking forward to it. And now about Peaches. . Have you received any messages on the cat's whereabouts?"
She stopped moving and turned to face me. But instead of the intent gaze I expected, her eyes slowly closed.
"Faint and indistinct," she said, and now her wispy voice took on what I can only call a singsong quality. "The cat is alive and healthy. I see it in a very plain room. It's just a single room with bed, dresser, small desk, armchair." Her eyes opened. "I am sorry, Archy, but that is all I have. I cannot see where this room is located. But if you wish, I will keep trying."
"Please do," I urged. "I think you've done wonders so far."
She didn't reply, and I had nothing more to ask about Peaches. I rose, moved toward the door, then paused.
"Hertha," I said, "when we have our seance, do you think we could contact Lydia Gillsworth?"
She looked at me gravely. "It might be possible."
"Could we ask her the name of her murderer?"
"Yes," she said, "we will ask."
"Thank you," I said. "Please let me know when the session will be held."
She nodded and then moved close to me. Very close. She lifted up on her toes and kissed me full on the mouth. It was not a kiss of commiseration between two fellow mourners. It was a physical kiss, sensual and stirring. Her lips were soft and warm. So much for my vision of her as a wraith. Ghosts don't kiss, do they?
She pulled away and must have seen my shock, for she smiled, opened the door, and gently pushed me out.
There was no one in the reception room. The place seemed deserted.
I drove home in a State of Utter: utterly startled, utterly confused, utterly flummoxed. I confess it wasn't the catnapping or murder that inspired my mental muddle; it was that carnal kiss bestowed by Ms. Gloriana. What did she mean by it? Kisses usually have meaning, do they not? They can signal a promise, serve as a lure, demonstrate a passion- any number of swell things.
Hertha's kiss was an enigma I could not solve. It had to be significant, but where the import lay I could not decide. As you may have guessed, my ego is not fragile, but I could not believe the lady had suddenly been overwhelmed by my beauty and brio. I am no Godzilla, but I am no young Tyrone Power either. I mean women are not repelled by my appearance, but neither do they swoon in my presence or feel an irresistible desire to nibble my lips.
I was still trying to puzzle out the mystery of that inexplicable kiss when I arrived home just as my father was garaging his Lexus. We paced back and forth together on the graveled turnaround before going inside.
"Have you heard from Sergeant Rogoff?" he asked.
"No, father. I expect he's busy."
"Have you made any progress?"
I was tempted to reply, "Yes, sir. I was smooched by a medium." But I said, "No, sir. Nothing of importance. Was Lydia's will as you remembered it?"
He nodded. "Roderick is the main beneficiary- which causes a problem. We also drew his will: a simple document since his estate is hardly extensive. He leaves what little cash he has and his personal effects to his wife. He bequeaths the original manuscripts of his poems to the Library of Congress."
"They'll be delighted," I said.
"Don't be nasty, Archy," he said sharply. "You and I may feel they are nonsense; others may see considerable literary merit."
I said nothing.
"The problem," my father continued, "is that Roderick is now a wealthy man. It is imperative that he revise his will as soon as possible. As things stand, the bulk of Lydia's estate is in a kind of legal limbo. If Gillsworth should die before dictating a new will, the estate might be tied up for years. I'd like to suggest to him that a new testament is necessary, but the man is so emotionally disturbed at the moment that I hesitate to broach the subject. I invited him to dine with us tonight, but he begged off. Too upset, he said. That's understandable."
"Yes, sir," I said. "I don't suppose he's quite realized the enormity of what's happened. Do you think he is aware of his wife's will?"
"I know he is. He was present when I discussed the terms with Lydia. Let's go in now. Considering recent events, I think we might schedule the family cocktail hour a bit earlier today."
"Second the motion," I said.
But despite the preprandial drinks and a fine dinner (duckling with cherry sauce), it was a lugubrious evening. Conversation faltered; the death of our neighbor seemed to make a mockery of good food and excellent wine. I think we all felt guilty, as if we should be fasting to show respect. Ridiculous, of course. An Irish wake makes much more sense.
After dinner I retired to my nest and worked on my journal awhile. Then I tried to read those books on spiritualism Mrs. Gillsworth had lent me. Heavy going. But I began to understand the basic appeal of the faith. It does promise a kind of immortality, does it not? But then so does every other religious belief, offering heaven, paradise, nirvana-whatever one wishes to call it.
It was all awfully serious stuff, and as I've stated on more than one occasion, I am not a serious johnny. In fact, my vision of the final beatitude is of a place resembling the Pelican Club where all drinks are on the house.
So I tossed the books aside and went back to wondering about the motive for Hertha Gloriana's kiss.
I came to 110 conclusion except to resolve that if there was an encore I would respond in a more manful and determined fashion.
Only to further the investigation, of course.