“May?”
“Yes. May it never happen.”
“You missed your calling, Archy. You should have gone on stage like your grandfather.” Without pausing to gloat she took an envelope from the top of her desk and removed its contents. “I’ve been trying to get you all day. This is addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Prescott McNally and Archibald McNally.” Adjusting her glasses she proceeded: “I hope you can join me for cocktails at Casa Gran tomorrow evening at seven. Very informal. R.S.V.P. regrets only. Hope to see you then. Sincerely, Harry Schuyler.””
“You’re jesting,” was all I could think to say.
“I am not. It came this morning, by hand if you please. Your father did some work for him a few years back and he’s always had his nose out of joint because Schuyler never invited him to Casa Gran and now this comes when he’s away. He’ll be furious.”
Still reeling from the invitation, I thought aloud, “But why me?”
Casa Gran was a Palm Beach showplace on a par with Mar-a-Lago. It was built by Harry’s grandmother in the 1930’s for a reputed ten million bucks depression bucks, that is. Multiply it by at least ten to arrive at today’s price tag. Grandma Schuyler’s father came by way of Detroit and mother via Chicago. It was said that no American could start their car or roast a weenie without giving Dolly Schuyler a buck.
In her prime, Dolly was a friendly competitor of Marjorie Merriweather Post, and it was said that she employed three complete serving staffs, on eight-hour shifts, to cater to the needs of Casa Gran’s residents and guests. If one had a yen for a ham sandwich and beer, or a steak dinner, at three in the morning, all one had to do was ring the kitchen. It was also said, sotto voce, that other needs were thoughtfully catered to at Casa Gran.
After the big war, Dolly’s son and his wife set out to best Scott and Zelda. They succeeded with the purchase of their own beach cottage on famous Gin Lane in Southampton, Long Island’s famed watering hole.
“Thirty-six rooms and ocean vu,” as the summer rental ads tout. The lane’s name says much about summertime in Southampton.
I didn’t need our research librarian to give me details on the life and loves of Dolly’s grandson, Harry III. Both were written in headlines from the time he was slapped with a paternity suit when he was a junior at St. Paul’s. Yes, kids, the prep school. After Dartmouth, where he excelled at Winter Carnival, he took a flat in New York and welcomed the age of Aquarius with long hair, funny cigarettes, and substances that sounded like the components of alphabet soup.
Always ahead of his time, Harry married a super model before there was such a thing as a super model. She gave him a son and a divorce after one year, leaving Harry the boy and taking a good chunk of his fortune to France where she became the companion of a French film star.
After that there came the movie star, the hat check girl who wanted to be a movie star, and the tennis pro who wanted to be the fourth Mrs.
Harry Schuyler. The twist came with Harry’s son who was so far from a chip off the ol’ block he could be a genuine mutation. Shy, conservative, and scholarly, he had graduated from Harvard with honors, went on for a Ph.D.” and continued for his M.D. According to Lolly Spindrift, Harry IV had been invited to join the staff of the prestigious Rockefeller Institute in New York and was about to announce his engagement to a young lady from a good family, who was herself an M.D.
“Why me?” I repeated.
“I imagine he’s being polite,” Mrs. Trelawney said. “I called as soon as this came and told Mr. Schuyler’s secretary that your parents were away and I would have to tender their regrets. He said he hoped the young Mr. McNally could attend.”
It was becoming very clear that the young Mr. McNally was the sought-after guest and his parents a smoke screen. If my father knew this, his one eyebrow would reach for his hairline before he acquiesced with pleasure. If this wasn’t an indirect appeal to Discreet Inquiries, I would cancel my plans for Bianca Courtney. No, I take that back. Even I can be wrong sometimes.
But why? Young Harry was Snow White in pants and Harry the elder had become a paragon of virtue since his son’s rise to prominence. To learn the answer was what made my job so titillating. There’s a little bit of scandal monger in the best of us and a little bit of voyeurism in the rest of us. But take heart, it’s said one cannot become a saint until one acknowledges one’s sins.
“Isn’t Casa Gran usually wrapped in mothballs for the summer with Schuyler shifting to Southampton for the season?”
“That’s what I always thought,” Mrs. Trelawney answered, ‘but these days who knows? No one pays any attention to seasons any more, or anything else for that matter. It’s a scandal.”
Mrs. Trelawney was beginning to sound like her boss, who subscribed to the London Times in order to keep pace with the Court Circular. At breakfast he will tell us the Duchess of Kent is confined to her bed with a cold and mother will say it’s going around, dear.
But I love my parents as well as Mrs. Trelawney, who has helped me out of many a jam as well as let me know when I was heading for one. Our verbal sparring keeps her from getting too bossy and me from becoming too cocksure.
If I wasn’t already in debt to Lolly I would see what he could tell me about Schuyler’s impromptu cocktail party but I couldn’t afford to feed the scribe on a steady basis. “Did you tell his secretary I would attend?”
“Naturally. And please remember, Archy, you’re representing the firm.”
“Meaning?”
“Informal means no tie, not halloween garb. I’m sure you own a nice summer suit. And not that salmon-colored concoction.”
“Yes, ma’am. I swim in it and I shall wear it to Casa Gran, without the top.”
I would think about Casa Gran, the Sabrina Wright imbroglio, and Lolly Spindrift tomorrow, if the planet Earth was still in her orbit and if Archy was still bumming a ride thereon. To assure that I would remain a passenger on that speck in the Milky Way, I would have to attend to Binky Watrous ASAP.
I headed for the mailroom which, incidently, was four times the square footage of my work space. Binky was surprised to see me. “That’s the perfect look, Binky, my boy. Save it for your housewarming.”
“You don’t think my eyes are too wide open, Archy?”
“Not at all, laddie. The wider the better. You’re playing to the balcony, remember.”
“I think I’ll get there a few minutes late to be sure I’m the last to arrive.”
Heaven forbid he should get there before a toaster, a corkscrew, or a potato peeler. “I know it’s not necessary but I want to remind you not to breathe a word to Connie, or anyone else, about the Bianca Courtney investigation. The first rule of detective work is to keep your mouth shut and your eyes open.”
“I know that, Archy. You can trust me.”
Having made the point, I rubbed his face in it. “It’s true, Connie is a friend, but you say something to a friend and that friend passes it on to a friend who is a friend of the guy we’re stalking. Discreet, Binky, is the cornerstone of our business. Don’t tell anyone about Bianca’s suspicions or that I’ve met with her and may be acting on her behalf.”
Looking as if he were taking the oath of allegiance to the French Foreign Legion, he promised, “I won’t say a word to anyone. I won’t even tell Connie that you know Bianca.”
Tine, Binky. I’m sure I didn’t have to remind you, so forgive the presumption. Enjoy your party.”
One down and a zillion to go.
Bianca was delighted to hear from me. “Archy,” she exclaimed, “I just got off with Antony Gilbert. I told him I wanted to stop by tomorrow to pick up some things I had left in my room, but I didn’t tell him you would be with me. I thought the element of surprise would work to our advantage.”
The young have such rich imaginations. But, come to think of it, so do the old. The only thing that might surprise Gilbert was not seeing Bianca alone, as I’m sure he was hoping would be the case. The grieving widower would not take kindly to Archy. I hoped to talk Bianca out of the visit this evening.