"Please be prompt," she went on, and I despaired of contributing to the conversation. "As you can imagine, these sittings are quite a strain on Hertha, and if they are delayed it only adds to her spiritual tension."
"We'll be on time," I said hurriedly and just did get it out before she hung up.
What a peremptory woman she was! I wondered what had happened to her husband. Had he died of frustration because he couldn't get a word in edgewise? Or had he divorced her for a more docile woman who welcomed small talk and could schmooze for hours about his gastritis and her bunions? My own guess was that Irma's husband went out to buy a loaf of bread, vamoosed, and was now employed as a tobacco auctioneer.
I worked fitfully on my expense account that morning, a monthly task that challenged my creativity. My labors were interrupted by three phone calls from informants I had queried about the Glorianas' financial status and credit rating.
By the time I had to leave for my luncheon date with Connie Garcia, I was convinced Al Rogoff had been right: the Glorianas were on their uppers. They weren't candidates for welfare-far from it- but their bank balances were distressingly low, and they had an unenviable reputation for bouncing checks. They always made good, eventually, but rubber checks make bankers break out in a rash, and they usually suggest chronic paperhangers take their business elsewhere.
I drove back to the beach to pick up Connie, reflecting on the Glorianas' impecunious state and dreaming up all kinds of fanciful scenarios to link their dreaded ailment, lackamoola, to the catnapping of Peaches. The connection seemed obvious; proving it was another kettle of flounder entirely.
When Ms. Garcia came bouncing out of her office in Lady Horowitz's mansion, I was lounging nonchalantly alongside the Miata, my new beret atop my dome and tilted dashingly to one side. Connie took a long, open-mouthed look and then bent almost double in a paroxysm of mirth.
"Please!" she gasped. "Archy, please take it off. I can't stand it! My ribs ache."
Much affronted, I crammed the cap back in my pocket. Ut quod ali cibus est allis fuat acre venenum. Translation: One's puce beret is another's aching ribs.
But your hero's generosity of spirit is sufficient to pardon a lapse of taste, and Connie's insult to my headgear was soon forgiven as we headed for the Pelican Club.
There was a goodly crowd at the bar but surprisingly few members were seated in the dining area. We got our favorite corner table, and Priscilla strutted over to take our order.
"Archy," Connie said, "show Pris your new hat."
Obediently I dug the beret from my jacket pocket and tugged it on at a rakish tilt. Priscilla stared, aghast.
"You know, Connie," she said, "the man really should be committed. It's obvious his elevator doesn't go to the top floor."
"What's obvious," I said, removing the beret, "is that the two of you are fashion's slaves but have no appreciation of style. Believe me, linen berets are the coming thing."
"If they're coming," Priscilla said, "I'm going. You folks want to sit here arguing about goofy hats or do you want to order?"
Connie and I had vodka gimlets to start, and we both went for Leroy's special of the day: a grilled grouper sandwich with spicy french fries, served with a salad of Bibb lettuce, red onions, and a vinaigrette sauce. A winner.
Connie attacked her food with enthusiasm and didn't mention a word about proteins, cholesterol, or fat, for which I was thankful. Nutrition nuts are the world's most boring dining companions. They make every bite a guilt trip, which forces me to gorge to prove my disdain for calories. I mean, if God had wanted us to nibble, He wouldn't have created veal cordon bleu.
"By the way," Connie said, looking up from her salad, "I sent in that application to the Glorianas, asking for a psychic profile."
"Good for you," I said. "Thank you, Connie. I hope you didn't make it too ridiculous."
"Nope. I just invented all the vital statistics, birthplace, names of parents, and so forth. And I bought a little red plastic heart at a gift shop and sent it along as my beloved personal possession. You really think the Glorianas will send me a phony profile?"
"As phony as your letter," I assured her. "Let me know as soon as you receive a reply. Meanwhile I'll get you a check from McNally and Son for services rendered."
"I'm not worried," she said. "But don't leave town."
We both laughed. She really was a jolly woman, and there was no side to her; what you saw was what you got. I think our problem-or rather my problem-was that we had become so familiar over the years that mystery was lacking; we knew each other too well. We were really more buddies than lovers, more contented than passionate. But content is never enough, is it? Which is why men and women cheat on each other, I suppose.
Thoughts like that saddened me, and I resolved to buy Connie a diamond tennis bracelet. Remorse can be costly-right?
I signed the tab for lunch, and Connie preceded me from the dining room and through the bar area. It was gratifying to see how many male noggins turned in her direction and to note the longing looks. She even drew appreciative glances from several of the females present, for Connie was an enormously attractive lady who radiated a buoyant delight in being alive, young, and full of fire.
I knew well that I was a fool to be unfaithful to her. But that knowledge didn't deter me. I consoled myself with the thought that if we all acted in an intelligent, disciplined manner, what a dull world it would be. I'm sure Napoleon thought the same thing as he staggered home from Moscow.
We returned to the Horowitz estate and sat in the car a few moments before Connie went back to work. She turned sideways to look directly at me, her expression set.
"Archy," she said in a firm voice, "you don't want to break up again, do you?"
"Break up?" I cried. "Of course I don't want to break up. What kind of nonsense is that?"
"You've been acting so strangely lately, so distant."
"I told you how busy I've been. I know you've heard about Lydia Gillsworth being killed. Well, she was our client, and father wants me to assist the police find the murderer. We were both very deeply affected by her death."
"I can understand that, but surely you're not busy twenty-four hours a day. We haven't had a night together for ages."
"That's not all my fault," I pointed out. "We did have a small bacchanalia planned, but then you had to work late. You do recall that, don't you?"
She nodded. "But that doesn't mean we can't plan another mini-orgy. Archy, remember the time we went skinny-dipping in the ocean at midnight?"
"A memory I shall retain forever," I said. "I got stung by a Portuguese man-of-war."
"A very small sting."
"On a very embarrassing portion of my anatomy. But you're right, Connie; it has been a long time since we two were one."
"Tomorrow night?" she suggested.
"Ah," I said, the old neurons and dendrites working at blinding speed, "regretfully I cannot. I have a meeting with Sergeant Al Rogoff to help prepare a statement to the press on the investigation. How about the weekend? Perhaps Saturday night?"
"Sounds good," she said. "I'll plan on it. Don't disappoint me, Archy."
"Have I ever?"
She gave me a rueful smile. "I better not answer that." She leaned forward to kiss my cheek. "Thanks for the lunch, luv. See you Saturday night. But do try to phone me before that-okay?"
"Of course," I said. "Absolutely."
She scampered into her office, and I drove home terrified that on some future date all the women I had wronged might hold a convention, compare grievances, and decide a prompt lynching of yrs. truly would be justified. I even imagined myself swinging from a palm tree, clad in nothing but my silk briefs imprinted with an image of Pan tootling his syrinx to a bevy of naked dryads.
I had no idea when Meg Trumble might call to announce her arrival, so I decided to stick close to the phone, even forgoing my ocean swim so I wouldn't miss her. I went directly to my quarters and switched the air conditioner to High Cool. It wasn't all that hot, but it was oppressively muggy, and I stripped to my skivvies before setting to work.