I nodded. "I can't promise success, but I must try."
"I haven't been much help, have I?"
"I'm sure you've provided all the information you possibly can."
"And you promise not to take this ridiculous matter to the police? It's really of no consequence."
I made no reply. She conducted me back through the house, then suddenly stopped and put a hand on my arm.
"Wait just a moment, Archy," she said. "I must show you something I brought back from Rhode Island for Rod's collection. I found it at a country shop near Woonsocket."
Roderick Gillsworth collected antique canes and walking sticks. In fact, collecting was an absolute frenzy in Palm Beach, and the more outre the collectibles, the stronger the passion. I myself had succumbed to the madness and was buying up every crystal shotglass I could find. The star of my collection was an etched Lalique jigger.
I had seen Gillsworth's collection before, and he had some beauts, including several sword canes, one that concealed a dagger, a walking stick that held a half-pint of whiskey, and a formal evening stick which, when one peered through a small hole in the handle, revealed a tiny photo of a billowy maiden wearing nothing but long black stockings and a coy smile.
The cane Lydia had brought her husband from Rhode Island was a polished, tapered cone of ash topped with a heavy head of sterling silver in the shape of a unicorn. It really was an impressive piece, probably about two hundred years old, and I longed to know what it cost-but didn't ask, of course.
I complimented Mrs. Gillsworth on her purchase and thanked her again for the pink lemonade. But I was not to escape so easily. She brought me that Eyelash begonia intended for my mother. I thought it should have been called a Godzilla begonia but thanked Lydia once again and lugged it out to the Miata. I drove home slowly, mulling over everything I had just learned. I am an amateur muller. I get that from my father, who is a world-class muller and has been known to ponder for two minutes trying to decide whether or not to salt a radish.
Mother was still absent when I arrived home so I left the monstrous plant on her workbench in the potting shed. I had plenty of time for my ocean swim before the family cocktail hour. It was while plowing through the murky sea that I had an idea which was absolutely bonkers. What if Mrs. Lydia Gillsworth had written the poison-pen letter herself and mailed it to herself?
I could think of several possible motives. (1) She wished to elicit sympathy from friends. (2) She wanted attention from her husband, who apparently spent most of his time cuddling with his muse. (3) She yearned for a little drama in a life that had become hopelessly humdrum. (4) She herself was around the bend and was now subject to irrational impulses.
A case could be made for suspecting Lydia as the culprit, but it fell apart when I remembered the similarly printed ransom note delivered to the Willi-gans. I doubted if Mrs. Gillsworth even knew the Willigans, and it was absurd to believe her guilty of swiping their cat.
I showered and dressed carefully for my date with Meg Trumble. I was in a Bulldog Drummond mood and wore total black: raw silk jacket, jeans, turtle-neck, socks, and loafers. My father took one look, elevated an eyebrow, and commented, "You look like a shadow." But of course his taste in male attire is stultified. He thinks my tasseled loafers are twee. I think of him as the Prince of Wingtips.
We sipped our martinis, and mother told us how delighted she was with Lydia Gillsworth's gift. The pater asked offhandedly if I had made any progress with the "Gillsworth matter," and I said I had not.
"And the Willigans' missing cat?" he added.
"Negative," I said, and was tempted to tell him I was convinced the two cases were connected. But I didn't, fearing he might have me certified.
We finished our drinks, and my parents went downstairs to dine. I went out to the Miata and sat long enough to smoke my third English Oval of the day, knowing that in Meg Trumble's company I would have to forgo nicotine.
Then I drove down to the Willigans' home, ruminating on where I could take Meg for dinner. It had to be someplace so distant that my presence with another woman might escape the notice of Consuela Garcia's corps of informants. I finally decided to make the journey to Fort Lauderdale.
I was familiar with W. Scott's warning about tangled webs. But I wasn't really practicing to deceive Connie.
Was I?
4
I had suggested to Meg that she dress informally and so she did: Bermuda shorts of blue silk, a tank top the color of sea foam, and a jacket in a muted shepherd's plaid that she wore over her shoulders cape-fashion. All undoubtedly informal, but so elegantly slender was her figure and so erect her carriage that she made even casual duds look as formal as a Givenchy ball gown.
"Smashing," I told her. "Have you ever modeled?"
"I tried once," she said, "but I don't photograph well. I come out all edges and sharp corners. The photographer said I looked like a stack of slates."
"Stupid photographer," I grumbled. "He probably prefers cheeseburgers to veal piccata."
Meg laughed. "Is that the way you think of me? As veal piccata?" "It's a splendid classic dish," I said.
I turned southward and she asked where we were going. I told her I knew a fine restaurant in Fort Lauderdale, and would she mind traveling for about an hour?
"Couldn't care less," she said. "I'm so happy to get out of that house."
"Oh?" I said. "Problems?"
"My brother-in-law," she said. "I can't stand the way he treats Laverne. The man is really a mouthy lout. I don't know how my sister puts up with him."
"Maybe she loves him," I said mildly.
Meg hooted. "Laverne loves the perks of being Mrs. Harry Willigan. But she's paying her dues. I'd never do it. If a man screamed at me the way Harry does, I'd clean his clock."
"I'll remember that."
"See that you do," she said, so solemnly that I couldn't decide if she was serious or putting me on.
I had hoped it would be a pure night, the air crystal, the sky glittering like a Cartier ad in Town amp; Country. But it was not to be. That murky ocean should have warned me; there was a squall brewing offshore, and the cloud cover was thickening.
"I think it's going to rain," Meg said.
"It wouldn't dare," I said. "I planned a romantic evening, and it's hard to be romantic when you're sopping wet."
"Oh, I don't know," she said thoughtfully, which convinced me this woman had depths.
Her prediction was accurate; rain began to spatter when we hit Deerfield Beach, south of Boca Raton. I didn't think it would last long-summer squalls rarely did-but it could be a brief vertical tsunami.
"We can stop and put up the top," I told Meg, "and then continue on to Lauderdale. Or we can take potluck and stop at the first restaurant we see that offers shelter for the car. Which shall it be?"
"You call it," she said.
So we continued on, the Miata hatless and the rain becoming more determined. Then, at Lighthouse Point, I spotted a Tex-Mex joint that had a portico out front. We pulled under just in time to avoid a Niagara that would have left us bobbing in a filled bathtub.
"Good choice," Meg said. "I love chili."
Marvelous woman! Not the slightest complaint that her jacket was semi-sodden and her short hair wetly plastered to her skull. We scampered inside the restaurant, laughing, and at that moment I really didn't care if the Miata floated away in our absence.
It was not the Oak Room at the Plaza. More of a Formica Room with paper roses stuck in empty olive jars on every table. It was crowded, which I took as a good omen. We grabbed the only empty booth available and slid in. Paper napkins were jammed in a steel dispenser, and the cutlery looked like Army surplus. But the glassware was clean, and there was a bowl of pickled tomatoes, mushrooms, and jalapenos, with tortilla chips, for noshing until we ordered.