"It's gone sour, Laverne. If Harry finds out, you know what'll happen to you, don't you?"
"Yeah," she said dolefully. "Out on my can. With no pre-nup."
"You took an awful risk," I marveled.
"A girl gets bored," she said, shrugging. "Listen, Archy, if you can keep me out of it, I'll make it worth your while."
And she put her hands behind her, leaned back, crossed her legs. She looked up at me, smiling again. There was a lot of her.
I laughed. "Laverne," I said, "you're incorrigible."
She licked her glossed lips, still smiling. "Think about it," she said.
I got out of there as hastily as I could. I don't care how macho a man claims to be, when a woman says Yes, his first reaction is not desire, it's fear.
I drove away with the feeling that this was going to be Denouement Day with all current problems solved and complexities unraveled. It didn't turn out quite that way, but it came close.
There was a question I wanted to ask Hertha Gloriana, and I thought I knew exactly where to find her. I guided the Miata up to Riviera Beach and within a half-hour I was tapping on the door of Meg Trumble's apartment.
"Why, Archy," she said, "what a pleasant surprise."
The "surprise" I could buy; the "pleasant" was iffy. But she allowed me to enter and, sure enough, Hertha was curled up on the couch. There was a box of Kleenex on the cushion beside her, and she was dabbing at her eyes.
Despite the medium's tears and Meg's rather frosty demeanor, both women looked extraordinarily attractive to me. They were wearing identical short-shorts of white twill with men's work-shirts, the tails knotted about their waists to reveal a few inches of midriff. And they displayed a quartet of splendidly tanned legs.
"Did you hear the news?" Meg demanded. "About Hertha's husband and her in-laws?"
"I heard," I said, nodding. "Have you been to the police, Hertha?"
She shook her head.
"I really think you should," I said gently. "They may want to question you. Ask to speak to Sergeant Rogoff."
"Hertha knows nothing about that cat," Meg said angrily. "I don't see why she should get involved."
I sighed. "Meg," I said, "she is involved. Her husband and mother-in-law have been arrested and her father-in-law shot dead. If she doesn't go to the police, they'll start looking for her. Sooner or later they're sure to find her, and then they'll want to know why she didn't come forward."
"Perhaps I should talk to them," Hertha said timidly. "Meg, will you come with me?"
Meg sat down beside her, put an arm about her shoulders. "Of course I will, darling," she said in a soothing voice. "We'll go together. Who did you say to ask for, Archy?"
"Sergeant Al Rogoff. He's a friend of mine, and I suggest you tell him that you already spoke to me. You'll find him very sympathetic."
"What do you think he'll ask me?" Hertha said.
It was a perfect opportunity to pose my own question. "He'll probably want to know if Roderick Gillsworth came to your office frequently."
The medium looked at me with widened eyes. "What an odd question."
"Well, did he?" I persisted. "Did Gillsworth come to your office and talk to Frank?"
"Several times," she said, nodding. "But they always went into the room where we did our mailings. I don't know what they talked about."
"Just tell Sergeant Rogoff that," I advised. "I'm sure he'll be interested. Hertha, will you be staying here?"
"Of course she will," Meg said definitely. "As long as she wants. Forever, I hope."
The medium turned and embraced the other woman tightly, kissing her on the lips. "Oh sweetheart," she cried, "what would I ever do without you?"
The two were hugging and whispering to each other when I left. I headed for the Pelican Club, hoping a wee bit of the old nasty might help restore my sanity. As I drove, I reflected on the strange convolutions of human behavior.
I could understand Meg's decision. After all, she had been betrayed by a man in a particularly cruel and humiliating manner. But Hertha's actions puzzled me. The married medium who dispensed her kisses so freely seemed a contradiction: she was a very physical spiritualist.
But that, I realized, was occupational stereotyping. Most of us are guilty of it.
For instance, librarians are generally thought to be sexless, dried-up biddies who affect a pince-nez and don rubber gloves before shaking hands with a man. I know from personal experience that this image is totally, totally false. (I wonder what Nancy is doing now?)
So it was really not too surprising to learn that being a psychic did not preclude Hertha from having urges of a more corporeal sort. A horny medium? Well, why not? And if she was subject to nymphomaniacal twinges, who was I, a hapless lothario, to condemn her? And if her nature included a predilection for sapphic relationships, so be it.
When I walked into the Pelican Club, the radio behind the bar was on, and Vikki Carr was singing "It Must Be Him." It was just too much, and I burst out laughing.
"You seem in a happy mood today, Mr. McNally," Simon Pettibone said.
"Pondering life's ironies, Mr. Pettibone," I said. "It is indeed a mad, mad world."
"But the only one we have," he reminded me.
"A frozen daiquiri, please," I responded.
I left the bar to use the public phone. Of course I called Rogoff, and of course he was unavailable. I slowly sipped my way through two daiquiris, called the sergeant every ten minutes with no results, and finally got through to him on my fifth call. He was brusque, obviously under pressure, and I hurriedly blurted out an invitation to stop by the McNally home that night at nine. "Okay," he said and hung up abruptly.
I had lunch while seated at the bar. Priscilla brought me a jumbo cheeseburger with side orders of french fries and coleslaw. I wolfed this Cholesterol Special with great enjoyment and had an iced
Galliano for dessert. I suspected my arteries might soon require the services of a Roto-Rooter man.
I drove back to Worth Avenue to take up a project I had started days ago and never completed: buying a tennis bracelet for Consuela Garcia. The need for a gift seemed more important now than when the idea had first occurred to me, for I had neglected that marvelous woman shamefully. The morning's encounters with Laverne Willigan, Meg Trumble, and Hertha Gloriana made me realize how important Connie was to me. Vital, one might even say, and I do say it.
I visited four jewelry shops before I found a bracelet that appealed to me: two-carat, cushion-cut diamonds set in 18K gold. It was horribly expensive, but I handed over my plastic gaily, following McNally's First Law of Shopping: If you can afford it, it's not worth buying.
I went directly home, stripped to the buff, and fell into bed for a nap, for I had enjoyed only five hours of shuteye the previous night. Before sleep claimed me, I thought again of my experiences that morning and laughed aloud. I simply could not take them seriously.
It is my conviction that solemnity is the curse of civilization. Think of all the earnest people who have sacrificed themselves for gods now forgotten or wasted their lives on causes no one remembers. Laughter is our only salvation. Pray with a giggle and mourn with a smile. And if you happen to believe, as I do, that women are nature's noblest work, know ye that long face ne'er won fair lady.
Thus endeth the scripture according to St. Archy.
18
It had been a sunny day with a scattering of popcorn clouds, but when I awoke from my nap around six p.m., a dark overhang had moved in from the east and rain had started. There was no wind, so the drizzle fell vertically and soon became a steady downpour that threatened to drive us all to the rooftops.
I wondered if Al Rogoff would show up in that drencher, and by nine o'clock I was waiting in the kitchen, peering out the window and ready to go out with my big golfing umbrella if he arrived. He plowed up in his pickup only fifteen minutes late, parked close to our back door, and came rushing in before I had a chance to unfurl my bumbershoot.