I scribbled furiously, and this is what I came up with:
Hertha's knowledge of Meg Trumble:
Meg's sister, Laverne, was a client of the Glorianas and quite likely had her horoscope prepared by the medium. Hertha could easily be aware of Meg's birthdate, the death of her parents, Meg's interest in physical exercise.
The voices:
Of course no one was familiar with the voice of Xatyl, the Mayan shaman, and it would be relatively simple for an actress with a gift of mimicry to imitate the speech of an old man. The voice of John Trumble might offer a problem, but the man had been dead for eight years, and it was doubtful if Meg remembered the exact sound of his voice. More importantly, she wanted to believe and was eager to accept any masculine voice as that of her departed father.
Lydia Gillsworth's voice would be easy for Hertha to reproduce since Lydia had been present at several seances and was well known to the medium.
Hertha's knowledge of Archy McNally:
I have already speculated on how my date of birth might have been learned by the Glorianas. And I had mentioned to Irma at our first meeting that I had been reading books on spiritualism. I hadn't revealed that they had been loaned to me by Mrs. Gillsworth, but Lydia had attended her final seance after lending me the books and could have casually mentioned that she was assisting me.
I read over what I had written. I didn't claim that all my explanations and suppositions were one hundred percent accurate. But they could be. And they certainly had as much or more claim to the truth than ascribing all the revelations made by the medium to paranormal powers. If you had to bet, where would you put your money?
But acting the disbeliever and applying cold logic to the occurrences at the seance failed in one vital and bewildering instance. That was the medium's screams "Caprice! Caprice!" in answer to my query as to the identity of the murderer of Lydia Gillsworth. Those shocking screams had been uttered in the voices of both Lydia and Hertha.
I had told Irma and Frank Gloriana that the outburst probably meant that the killer had acted on a whim, a sudden impulse, and the murder was unpremeditated. That was pure malarkey, of course. I thought I knew what that shrieked "Caprice! Caprice!" really signified.
It was the car in which Lydia Gillsworth had driven home to her death.
11
I set out detecting on Thursday morning sans beret-which was certainly more socially acceptable than setting out sans culotte. It was my intention to visit the remaining three animal hospitals on my list, and I feared outre headgear might tarnish the image I wished to project: a worried swain seeking his lost love and her ailing cat.
But first I had a small chore to perform and phoned Roderick Gillsworth.
"Good morning, Rod," I said. "Archy McNally. Welcome home."
"Thank you, Archy," he said. "You have no idea how wonderful it is to be home."
"Rough time?" I inquired.
"Rough enough," he said. "I meant to call you Tuesday night after the funeral, but I had a duel with a bottle of California brandy. The bottle won."
"That's all right," I said. "There was nothing new to report anyway. Rod, I'd like to return your house keys. Will you be home this morning?"
Short pause. Then: "Only for another half-hour. I have some errands to run-supermarket shopping and all that. Including a liquor store so I can return your vodka."
"Don't worry about that. Could I pop over now? It'll just take a minute; I won't linger."
"Sure," he said, "come ahead."
When I arrived at the Gillsworth home, his gray Bentley was parked on the bricked driveway. I admired that vehicle. Subdued elegance. A bit staid for my taste but undeniably handsome.
I rang the bell, Rod opened the door, and I blinked. He usually wore solid blues, whites, and blacks, nothing flashy. But that morning he was clad in lime-green slacks with yellow patent leather loafers, complete with fringed tongues. And over a pink polo shirt was a Lilly Pulitzer sport jacket.
I don't know if you're familiar with that garment, but about twenty years ago it was de rigueur for the young bloods of Palm Beach. Ms. Pulitzer doted on flower prints, and a jacket of her fabric made every dude a walking hothouse. Rod's was a bouquet of daisies, mini carnations, and Dolores roses.
He saw my surprise and gave me an embarrassed smile. "A transformation," he said. "What?"
"Quite," I said.
"Lydia found the jacket in a thrift shop," he said. "A perfect fit, but I never had the courage to wear it. I'm wearing it now for her. You understand?"
I nodded, thinking that chintzy jacket had to be the world's strangest memorial.
"Come on in, Archy," he said. "Too early in the morning to offer you an eye-opener, I suppose."
"By about two hours," I said. "But thanks for the thought."
I moved inside and we stood talking in the hallway.
"Here are the keys, Rod," I said, handing them over. "Everything all right in the house when you returned?"
"Shipshape. Thank you for your trouble. And you've learned nothing new about the investigation from Sergeant Rogoff?"
"Not a word. The poison-pen letters Lydia received have been sent to the FBI lab for analysis. Rogoff should be getting a report soon."
"Do you think he'll tell you what the report says?"
"Probably."
"Then I wish you'd tell me," he said, and added testily, "That man simply refuses to let me know what's going on."
I had no desire to listen again to his complaints against Al, so I changed the subject. "By the way, Rod," I remarked, "I had an unusual experience last night. I attended a seance at the Glorianas'."
His face twisted into a tight smile. "Did you now? Good lord, I haven't been to one of those things in ages. I didn't know you were interested in spiritualism."
"Curiosity mostly," I said. "And the Glorianas are fascinating people."
He considered a moment. "Yes," he said finally, "I suppose you could call them fascinating. Lydia always said that the medium had a genuine psychic gift. Did Hertha tell you anything?"
"Nothing I didn't already know," I said. Then a question occurred to me. "Incidentally, Rod, do you happen to know if Irma, the mother-in-law, is widowed, divorced-or what? I was wondering and of course I didn't want to ask her directly. It would have sounded too much like prying."
Again he paused a moment before answering. Then: "I believe Lydia mentioned that Irma is a widow. Yes, now I recall; her husband was an army officer, killed in the Korean War."
"A strong woman," I opined. "Domineering."
"Do you really think so?" he said. "That's a bit extreme, isn't it? Dominant perhaps, but not domineering."
"You poets," I said, smiling. "You make a nice distinction between adjectives."
"I hate adjectives," he said. "And adverbs. They're so weak and floppy. Don't you agree?"
"Indubitably," I said, and we both laughed.
Your hero drove away wondering and happy. Wondering why the bird had suddenly transmogrified from crow to peacock, and happy that I had picked up another item to add to my journaclass="underline" Mrs. Irma Gloriana was a widow.
I tooled over to West Palm Beach and started my search. It would add immeasurably to the dramatic impact of this narrative if I could detail fruitless visits to two emergency animal clinics and then conclude triumphantly by telling you I struck paydirt at the last on my list. But I have resolved to make this account as honest as is humanly possible, so I must confess that I succeeded at the first hospital I canvassed.
I performed my song and dance for the receptionist, a comely young miss. She seemed sympathetic and spoke into an intercom. In a moment a veterinarian exited from an inner office and accosted me. He was wearing a long white doctors' jacket with five-count 'em, five! — ballpoint pens clipped to a plastic shield in his breast pocket. He was a short, twitchy character who appeared to be of nerdish extraction.