"H'lo?" I said warily.
"Archy?" A woman's voice I could not immediately identify.
"Yes. To whom am I speaking?"
"Such elegant grammar! Meg Trumble."
Relief was better than a schooner of marc.
"Meg!" I practically shouted. "How are you?" "Very well, thank you. I didn't wake you up, did
I?"
"Of course not. It's the shank of the evening."
"Well, I did call earlier, but I guess you were out. Behaving yourself, I hope."
"Unfortunately. You're calling from King of Prussia?"
"Yes, but I'm leaving early tomorrow morning, and I do mean early. I should be in Florida by Tuesday."
"Can't wait," I said. "Listen, if you arrive in time, give me a call and we'll have dinner. You'll be ready to unwind after all that driving."
"I was hoping you'd say that," she said. "I'm not even telling Laverne when I expect to arrive, but I'll phone you as soon as I get in. See you Tuesday night."
"Good-o," I said. She hung up, and I sat there grinning like an idiot at the dead phone.
It was incredible what a goose that phone call gave to my dismal mood. I was immediately convinced I would rescue Peaches, find the killer of Lydia Gillsworth, the sun would shine full force on the morrow, and I would lose at least five pounds.
When A. Pope wrote about hope springing eternal, he obviously had A. McNally in mind.
8
I don't believe I've ever mentioned my peculiar infatuation with hats. I love hats. When I was attending Yale Law (briefly), I wore suede and tweed caps, fedoras, bowlers, and once, in a moment of madness, a fez. But all that headgear was a mite heavy for South Florida, so when I returned to Palm Beach I opted for mesh caps, panamas, and a marvelous planter's sombrero with a five-inch brim.
Recently I had written to a custom hat maker in Danbury, Conn., and had ordered three linen berets in white, puce, and emerald green. They arrived on Monday morning, and I was highly pleased. They were soft enough to roll up and tuck in a hip pocket, yet when they were donned and the fullness pulled rakishly over to one side, I felt they gave me a certain devil-may-care look.
I went down to a late breakfast wearing my new puce beret. Fortunately my father had already departed for the office so I didn't have to endure his incredulous stare. Mother took one look, laughed delightedly, and clapped her hands.
"Archy," she said, "that beret is you!"
I was so gratified by her reaction that I wore the cap while breakfasting on fresh grapefruit juice, three slices of Ursi Olson's marvelous French toast with honey-apricot preserve, and a pot of black coffee. I was finishing my second cup when mater remarked casually, "Oh, by the way, Archy, Harry Willigan phoned just before you came down. He'd like you to call him as soon as possible. He sounded in a dreadful temper."
Dear mother! She made certain I had a nourishing breakfast before breaking the bad news. I went into father's study and called the Willigan home. Julie Blessington, the maid, answered the phone. I identified myself and asked to speak to the master. In a moment our splenetic client came on the line and began screaming at me.
He was spluttering and shouting so loudly that it was difficult to grasp the reason for his rancorous outburst. I finally determined that a second ransom note had been found that morning, slid under the Willigans' front door.
"When was it found?" I asked.
"I told you already-this morning."
"How early this morning?"
"Very early. When Ruby Jackson came down to make breakfast."
"You think it was delivered last night?"
Who the hell knows? You're the detective, ain-cha?"
"Plain white envelope?"
"Yeah, same as before."
"Who in your house has handled it?"
"Ruby handled the envelope. I handled the envelope and the letter inside."
"Don't let anyone else touch it, Mr. Willigan. What does the letter say?"
"Peaches is crying a lot. Poor Sweetums. She misses me."
"Uh-huh," I said. "What else?"
"They want me to put together a bundle of fifty thousand dollars. Used bills, unmarked, no numbers in sequence, nothing over a hundred."
"Any instructions for delivery?"
"Nah. I should just have the cash ready. They'll tell me when and how to get it to them."
"I better come over and pick up the letter," I said. "Will you be there, sir?"
"No, I won't be here," he said aggrievedly. "I got a meeting I'm late for already. I'll leave the letter with Laverne. You get it from her."
"Please tell her not to handle it."
"All right, all right," he said angrily, "I'll tell her. Listen, Archy, you've got to work harder on this thing. As far as I can see, you're spinning your wheels."
"Not exactly," I said. "I have a very important lead I can't discuss on the phone."
"Yeah?" he said. "Well, it better pan out or I'm hiring me a professional private eye. And I might even pull my business from McNally and Son unless I get some results."
And with that naked threat he slammed down the phone before I had a chance to reply. The response I had ready would have shocked my father. He believes a soft answer turneth away wrath. Sometimes it does. And sometimes a knuckle sandwich is required.
I went upstairs to exchange my puce beret for the white one because I feared the puce would clash with a flag-red Miata. (Genius is in the details.) Then I drove toward the Willigans' estate. My spasm of fury at our client's insulting treatment ebbed as I noted the sun was shining brightly and the sky looked as if it had just come from the tum-ble-dry cycle. A splendid day!
The door of the Willigan hacienda was opened by Leon Medallion, glum of countenance, eyes bleared by whatever allergy was affecting him that morning.
"Another ransom note, Leon," I said.
He nodded gloomily. "The old man was in a ferocious temper. When he starts shouting up a storm like that, I disappear. He can be mean."
"I'm supposed to pick up the letter from Mrs. Willigan. Is she here?"
"Out by the pool toasting her buns. You can find your way, can't you? I'm still polishing the effing silver, trying to get the tarnish off. This climate is murder on silverware, brass, and copper."
"Maybe we should all switch to plastic," I suggested.
He brightened. "Fair dinkum, mate," he said.
It hadn't been an exaggeration to say Laverne was toasting her buns. She was lying prone on a padded chaise pulled into the sunlight. She was wearing a thong bikini, and I was immediately reminded of a Parker House roll. She raised her head as I approached. It was wise of her not to rise farther since she had unhooked her bra strap.
"Hi, Archy," she said breezily. "Love your tam."
"Beret," I corrected, "and I thank you. I hope you're using a sunscreen."
"Baby oil," she said.
"You won't roast," I told her, "you'll fry. May I pull up a chair?"
"Sure," she said. "And if you're a good boy I'll let you oil my back."
She was at it again, and I decided she was a lady who enjoyed playing the tease. There is a coarse epithet for women like that-but I shall not offend by repeating it.
I placed a canvas director's chair close to her chaise, but not within oiling distance, and sat where I could see her face.
"Another letter from the catnappers," I said.
"That's right. Harry said to give it to you. It's on the taboret in the hallway. They want him to get the cash ready."
"So I understand. I imagine the next letter will give instruction for delivery."
"Archy, do you have any notion of who might have swiped Peaches?"
"A few frail leads," I said, "but nothing really definite. Laverne, I have a fantastic idea I'd like to try out on you. Do you know what a psychic is?"
Her face was half-buried in the padding, and I couldn't observe her reaction.