“You little devil, you have me by my compromising position.”
“That’s the idea. Yes or no, Archy?”
What’s a Discreet Inquirer to do? “Yes. Yes, yes, yes.”
Seventeen
As you may have guessed I awoke late the following morning and Ursi surprised me with one of my breakfast favorites, kippers and scrambled eggs.
“Everyone is talking about Sabrina Wright and her daughter, Archy. Have you heard about it?” Ursi asked as she poured my coffee.
“I’ve heard something, Ursi. What are people saying
“It seems Sabrina Wright’s daughter, Gillian, and her boyfriend are down here looking up old society news stories at the library. Well, Mrs. Marsden over at Lady Cynthia’s says that Lady C thinks the daughter and her boyfriend must be looking for someone from these parts who was on the social scene some years back. And Hanna Ventura told Lady Cynthia that Sabrina adopted the girl, Gillian, as a single parent and raised her in the lap of luxury. Mrs. Ventura read about it in Vanity Fair, and she thinks the girl is looking for her true mother who may be someone we all know. There could be a scandal brewing, Archy, as we speak.”
Dear Hanna didn’t know how close she was to the truth. But with that kind of talk going around and the only other parent one could have was the father, Appleton and Cranston must be quivering in their limos.
In the interest of learning what other rumors were making the rounds, I queried, “So what else have you heard, Ursi?”
Jamie, as always, sipped his coffee while reading the morning paper and listening to every word. They say N. Bonaparte, Buonaparte, could also read and listen at the same time and look what they did to him. Would Jamie one day be exiled to Fisherman’s Island in Lake Worth?
“The girl’s boyfriend,” Ursi continued on pouring a cup for herself,
‘is a newspaper reporter, and he’s going to write about the investigation. You know many adopted people now go in search of their natural parents. It’s exciting. But if the girl’s natural mother put her up for adoption and signed away all rights, she wouldn’t know the girl had been taken in by a famous author. Won’t she be surprised, Archy?”
“That’s one way of putting it,” I said with a thoughtful nod.
Here Ursi confided, “Mrs. Marsden was wondering if Lady C is the natural mother. You know she’s had so many husbands and a few on the side, if you’ll excuse the expression.”
“You’re excused.”
“So Sabrina Wright didn’t come down here to stop her daughter from eloping, as she told you, Archy. She came to either help or hinder the girl’s search. That’s what Mr. Anderson told Simone.”
“Simone, Ursi?”
“She’s the Andersons’ upstairs girl,” Ursi said.
As noted, when you get enough people taking potshots at the same target someone is bound to hit the bull’s-eye. The only saving grace was that no one would know whose arrow had hit the mark. Apropos of nothing, did Mrs. Anderson know her husband kept Simone upstairs?
I stood, looking rather fit in a crisp cord suit from Chipp, pale green (I believe it is now known as celadon) button-down shirt with open collar and loafers. Must I say no socks? Socks with loafers in Palm Beach in July is just not done, like diamond tiaras at lunch or pinky rings on gentlemen. “I have to be on my way,” I told the couple.
“Don’t forget the folks will be home in a few days,” she reminded me.
“Doesn’t the time fly?”
I would be happy and relieved to have the lord and lady of our manor back. I especially missed mother and at this juncture would even welcome the advice and consent of father regarding the unenviable positions of Thomas Appleton and Richard Cranston. Or did I just long to retaliate and drop a few names over cocktails? And I had not forgotten my invitation to Casa Gran this evening. Oh, Prescott will be green with envy, rugging on his mustache and sending his one eyebrow toward the ceiling.
Jamie followed me out to our driveway and surmising he had something to add to the morning gossip, I paved the way with, “What do you hear, Jamie?” I asked because Jamie pioneered in don’t ask, don’t tell politics.
“Bit of a flap over at the Cranstons’ is what I hear.” With Jamie that could mean anything from a collapsed souffle to murder.
“Any details?” I encouraged.
“Seems Mr. Cranston sent his regrets to an invitation from the White House. Big social event. Dinner for fifty and then some guy was going to play the cello for the guests. Mrs. Cranston was furious and let him know it as well as everyone else in the house. She got so testy, Cook almost quit.”
This misbegotten affair was taking its toll on the natives. One got the feeling that everyone on the island was holding their breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop. The most disturbing fact to those concerned must be that there was nothing they could do about it, and frustration is a dangerous humor. Blow the whistle and the jig’s up.
Keeping quiet could get the same result. Sabrina, the paradigm of bargain makers, was the only one in a position to stop Gillian from her inane prying, but was having no success, it seemed. But did Sabrina truly want to stop her?
“Anyone know why Cranston turned down his old fraternity brother?”
Hobo joined us to eavesdrop. Jamie slipped him a treat and Hobo retreated back to his home. “Seems he doesn’t want to leave Palm Beach at the moment, is what the staff hears. Why, they don’t know.”
Neither does poor Mrs. Cranston, which accounted for her rage. With three unmarried daughters she couldn’t afford to turn down invitations where eligible bachelors roamed the range like bison. Ursi’s info was secondhand hearsay, while Jamie’s was straight to-the-point, fact. He wouldn’t think anything else was worth opening his mouth for. I slipped him a pourboire along with a thank-you and hopped in my Miata.
As I headed for the Palm Court I speculated upon how much longer this farce could go on before something gave. But what or who would give was the question. Did Appleton call Sabrina? Did Cranston? If so, had she agreed to see them? And what could she say other than she was sorry she told Gillian as much as she had and promise to stop her their? daughter from causing any more talk than she already had?
Could Sabrina do it twice, without cracking a smile? She could. But would it be enough? I was tempted to call her, but remained unyielding in my resolve to mind my own business and let the chips fall where they may, as long as they didn’t land on poor Archy’s head.
Why was I going to the Palm Court? Because little Miss Buttons and Bows had twisted my er arm until I agreed to see Antony Gilbert. I must say the girl was as subtle as a rattlesnake and just as mesmerizing. The younger generation is a many-splendored thing, let me tell you. Children in adult garb, they are both vampiric and satyric.
I should have sent her packing last night with a sound reprimand. I did not because I wanted to see just how far she would go to attain her goal. Not all the way, but not all that bad either. Did the end justify the means? Well, I’m on my way to do her bidding.
No stretch limos on my tail this morning, but Al Rogoff’s car was in its bay. Binky, of course, was at work. If Al didn’t happen to be looking out his window I’m sure Mrs. Brewster across the way would ring him up to announce that the red car was back without the stretch limo.
Bianca was out her door before I had a chance to close the Miata’s ignition. She came running to the car wearing white shorts and a man’s pink dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up and the tails hanging out.
She had her hair pulled back and tied with a white satin ribbon and a U
of Miami baseball cap on her head and sneakers on her feet. She looked so good she should be illegal.
“Do you think that’s the proper attire for our mission?” I asked as she got into the car.
“Relax, Archy, I dressed down to throw Tony off the scent. You know, casual. Hi, ‘bye, in, out. Let him guess what we’re doing.” She pulled the baseball cap on tighter as we picked up speed.