Next we had Robert Silvester, the subject of my nascent investigation.
My first impression was that he might have joined forces with Gillian to escape Sabrina, but that was before I knew why, and with whom, the girl had fled. Mr. Right was acting on his wife’s behalf, but, and I forgot to ask, did he know Sabrina’s secret? He must, or she would not have sent him in search of Gillian, who would tell him when he caught up with her.
Then why did Robert come to Palm Beach alone? Why didn’t Sabrina accompany him? Why did he check out of the Chesterfield after he found Gillian and where had he gone to?
Was Gillian a plain Jane forever in the shadow of her charismatic mother? Did her attractive suitor talk her into going in search of her roots, or had it occurred to her that being acknowledged by a father whose blood was blue and bank account green would legitimatize her in more ways than one?
And let’s not forget Zack Ward, a tabloid reporter hot on the trail. To what length would he go to expose Gillian’s father?
Finally, we had Lolly Spindrift, who had inadvertently opened this can of worms. He would make every sacrifice, including canceling his subscription to Playgirl, in return for the real scoop on Sabrina Wright’s presence in Palm Beach.
In retrospect, there was more to the case than Sabrina’s plot outline, and the cast of characters alone promised a page-turner. As the old drinking song had it, “This is number one and the fun has just begun …”
I turned off the Al A and onto the graveled driveway of my favorite restaurant the Chez McNally on Ocean Boulevard.
Three
For those who wonder why a charismatic bachelor in possession of a functioning medulla oblongata one who is approaching his fourth decade chooses to live at home, the answer is Dollars amp; Sense. I occupy my own snug garret in our faux Tudor palace, tucked beneath a charming but leaky copper roof. The drip, drip, drip of the raindrops makes my three-room suite sitting room, bedroom, and bath tres bohemian, an ambiance difficult to come upon in south Florida where postmodern is all the rage.
The lord and lady of the manor are currently on a long overdue holiday, cruising the Caribbean on a luxury liner from which father can ship-to-shore the office every day and inquire of his private secretary, the formidable Mrs. Trelawney, as to the day’s receipts and, no doubt, Archy’s whereabouts.
Mother, Madelaine by name, suffers from a touch of hypertension and has grown a tad forgetful in her golden years, but remains a gentlewoman of immense charm. A gardener who raises only begonias, she has as many varieties of that tropical plant as are recognized by certified horticulturists, and then some. Her newest, an Iron Cross, was about to come into its own just as she and the guy were due to ship out of Ft. Lauderdale. Mother consented to go only after we had secured a member of her garden club to look after the new arrival and its numerous relations.
Looking after Archy were Ursi Olson, our cook-housekeeper, and her husband, Jamie, our houseman. Ursi’s cooking is one of the perks of living at home, another being the Atlantic Ocean just across the A1A from our abode where I can indulge my passion for swimming two miles every day, weather and time permitting. Our climate and my job permit far more often than they deny. While Ursi would not know a cordon bleu from a 4-H Club, she could make anything edible delectable, which accounts for the continuing shrinkage of my waistbands.
Hobo, our canine of blended heritage, peeked out of his gabled cottage as I emerged from my car. Satisfied that I was not a thief, bill collector, or religious zealot in search of converts, he returned to his afternoon siesta. I always get the feeling that I should apologize to our quadruped sentry for interfering with his power nap.
Archy!” Ursi exclaimed as I entered the kitchen, “I wasn’t expecting you.”
“I wasn’t expecting me either,” I told her, ‘but I had a noon appointment that cut into my lunch hour and thought you might whip up a snack to fill the void.”
“Well,” she pondered, “I could do something with what’s left of last night’s roast pork.”
Jamie, who is as verbose as a stone, was seated at the table reading his newspaper. Tearing his eyes away from the latest Palm Beach brouhaha the rabbi of our local temple punched a board member in the face after a heated argument and the recipient did not turn the other cheek greeted my arrival with a grunt or a groan or, perhaps, a burp.
Taking my place at the table I asked Ursi if she knew Sabrina Wright.
As she poured olive oil into a skillet, Ursi cooed, “Oh, Archy, I love her. I’m on the list at the library for her latest book.”
Ursi also loves the afternoon soaps, the evening sitcoms, and films in DeLuxe Color and stereophonic sound. I haven’t seen a satisfying flick since Louise Fazenda rolled down her stockings for Mack Sennett. “How long is the list?” I wondered aloud.
Now slicing an onion, followed by a green pepper, Ursi told me the library ordered no less than five copies of Sabrina Wright’s novels upon publication, but even with this extraordinary number in stock one had to wait weeks before getting their hands, and eyes, on Sabrina’s latest assault on desire. “I met her today,” I announced as if stating that I had run into an old friend.
Ursi paused in her efforts to resuscitate last night’s roast and let out an “Ah.” Jamie’s head twitched, but from experience I knew that he had not missed a word of the conversation. In my years of discreetly inquiring around the Town of Palm Beach I have learned that the best way to find out what is afoot upstairs is to nose around downstairs.
The domestics along Ocean Boulevard keep in constant touch, and a word from me to Ursi and Jamie would travel around our little island faster than a speeding bullet trying to outrace the man of steel.
Having no leads, I took my first chance in the case and sowed a few seeds into the fertile ears of our accommodating couple to see what, if anything, they would reap. I let it be known that Sabrina Wright was in Palm Beach in search of her daughter who had run off with a man Sabrina found odious. This was as much as I could say without betraying Sabrina’s confidence, and it was more a sin of omission than a lie. Like all natives it did not occur to Ursi to ask why the couple had come to Palm Beach, but she would have commented on their choice of destination had they gone elsewhere. As onion and pepper, along with slices of leftover baked potato, were tossed into the skillet and enveloped by the fragrant olive oil it occurred to me that once Ursi and Jamie passed on this version of Sabrina’s reason for being here, Lolly’s man that got away would acquire a third persona — Gillian’s beau.
Jamie, without so much as a nod, understood that I would be grateful for anything he could come up with regarding the whereabouts of Sabrina’s daughter and her current flame. I have often slipped Jamie a few large greenbacks in appreciation of services rendered, a fact that would drive my sire up a wall and get me expelled, yet again, from a safe harbor. But in my business the riskiest thing one can do is not tempt the fates.
The aroma ascending from Ursi’s skillet had me salivating as she lovingly sauteed the vegtables before adding the sliced roast pork and a touch of sherry. She left it on the flame long enough to warm the pork through and crisp the edges, then quickly de glazed the pan. As she transferred the contents to a warm plate, drizzling the lot with the savory pan juices, she complained, “You would think Sabrina Wright would know better. All her heroines fall in love with the wrong man, only they turn out to be the right man in the end.”