"With pleasure," I said. "Thank you."
"And I'll take another look at the Eyelash begonia," she added. "If it seems fit to travel, perhaps you can carry it back to your mother."
"Delighted," I said bravely.
After she hung up, I took the box of English Ovals from my jacket, stared at it a moment, then returned it unopened to my pocket. I was attempting to renounce the things and was at the point where denying myself a cigarette yielded almost as much satisfaction as smoking one. Almost-but not quite.
I phoned Sgt. A1 Rogoff at the Palm Beach Police Department. A1 was a compadre of many years, and we had worked together on several cases, usually to our mutual benefit.
"Sergeant Rogoff," he answered.
"Archy McNally," I said. "How was the vacation?"
"Great," he said. "I spent a week bonefishing off the Keys."
"Liar," I said. "You spent a week in Manhattan and went to the ballet every night."
"Shhh," he said, "not so loud. If that got around, you know what a ribbing I'd take from the Joe Six-packs?"
"Your secret is safe with me," I said. "How about lunch in an hour?"
"Nope," he said promptly. "I could make it but I'm not going to."
"Al!" I said, shocked. "Since when do you turn down a decent lunch? I'll pay the bill."
"You'll pay the bill for the food," he said, "but every time I have lunch with you I end up paying a lot more-like more work, more stress, more headaches. No, thanks. You solve your own problems."
"I have no problems," I protested. "I'm not working a case. I merely wanted to have a pleasant social get-together."
"Oh sure," he said. "When shrimp fly. I appreciate the invitation, but I'll pass."
"Well, will you at least answer one little question for me?"
"Trot it out and I'll let you know."
"Has the Department had any complaints lately from people receiving poison-pen letters? Vicious stuff. Threats of murder."
"I knew it!" Rogoff said, almost shouting. "I knew you'd never feed me without getting me involved in one of your cockamamy investigations. Who got the letter?"
"I can't tell you that," I said. "Client confidentiality. And I'm not trying to get you involved. I just want to know if it's part of a local pattern."
"Not to my knowledge," he said. "I'll ask around but I haven't heard of any similar squeals."
"Al," I said, "the crazies who mail filth like that- do they ever do what they threaten?"
"Sometimes they do," he said, "and sometimes they don't."
"Thank you very much," I said. "That's a big help."
"We're here to serve," he said. Then, gruffly, "Keep me up to speed on this, Archy. I don't like the sound of it."
"I don't either," said I, and we hung up.
I drove home for lunch reflecting that Sgt. Rogoff was right; sooner or later I'd have to get him involved. I needed professional help on the Willigan and Gillsworth letters: analysis of the paper and the printing machine used, perhaps a psychological profile of the writer. I laughed aloud at what Al's reaction would be when he learned I wanted his assistance to recover an abducted pussycat.
It was not, after all, a major criminal act. In fact, considering Peaches' personality, I didn't think it was a crime at all. I remembered The Ransom of Red Chief, and wondered if the case might end with the catnappers paying Harry Willigan to take back his disagreeable pet.
My mother had departed for the monthly meeting of her garden club so I lunched in the kitchen with Ursi and Jamie Olson. We had a big platter of cold cuts, a bowl of German potato salad, and the marvelous sour rye Ursi bakes once a week. We all made sandwiches, of course, with a hairy mustard and cold bottles of St. Pauli Girl to cool the fire.
It was all so satisfying that I went up to my digs for a short nap. I had a demented dream that involved Peaches wearing pajamas in convict stripes. The pj's then turned into a sleek black maillot. Can you help me, Dr. Freud?
I awoke in time to freshen up, smoke a cigarette (No. 2), and vault into the freshly washed Miata for my trip to the Gillsworth home. I was looking forward to my conversation with Lydia, a lovely woman.
She was younger than her husband by about ten years, which would put her in my age bracket. But I always thought of her as a married woman and that made her seem older. I can't explain it. Why do married people strike one as older than singles of the same age? I must puzzle that out one of these days.
Physiognomically Lydia Gillsworth was unique- at least in my experience. She had an overbite so extreme that I once heard it cruelly remarked that she was the only woman in Palm Beach who could eat corn on the cob through a picket fence. But to compensate for this anomaly she had the county's most wonderful eyes. They used to be called bedroom eyes: large, deep-set, luminous. It was almost impossible to turn one's gaze away from those seductive orbs.
And charm? A plentitude! She had the rare faculty of making you believe she thought you the most fascinating creature on God's green earth. She listened intently, she asked pertinent questions, she expressed sympathy when needed. All with integrity and dignity. Can a woman be a mensch-or is that a term reserved for honorable men? If it is, then Lydia was a menschess.
I knew the Gillsworths had no staff of live-in servants but employed a Haitian housekeeper who worked thrice a week. So I wasn't surprised when the mistress herself opened the door in answer to my knock. She drew me inside in a half-embrace and kissed my cheek.
"Archy!" she cried. "This is nice! Guess what I have for you."
"An autographed photo of Thelma Todd?"
"No," she said, laughing, "a pitcher of pink lemonade. Let's go out on the patio. It's a super day."
She led the way through the Gillsworth home. It was decorated in the French Country style: everything light, airy, in muted colors. Fresh flowers were abundant, and the high-ceilinged rooms seemed to float in the afternoon sunlight. Overhead fans billowed gossamer curtains, and the uncar-peted floor, random-planked and waxed to a high gloss, reflected the antique bestiary prints framed on the whitewashed walls.
The patio was small but trig. It faced west but a striped awning shielded it from the glare of the setting sun. We sat at a glass-topped table and drank iced pink lemonade from pilsners engraved with a vine design.
She wasted no time with small talk. "Archy," she said, "I do wish Roderick hadn't consulted your father and you about that letter." She was as close to petulance as I had ever seen her. "It's so embarrassing."
"Embarrassing? Mrs. Gillsworth, through no fault of yours, you have received a very venomous message. I could understand your being concerned, but why should you be embarrassed?"
"Because I seem to be causing such a foofaraw. Isn't that a lovely word? I've wanted to use it for ages. The letter doesn't bother me; it's such a stupid thing. But I am upset by the disturbance it's causing. Poor Rod hasn't been able to write a line since it arrived, and now you've been dragooned into trying to find the writer when I'm sure there are a dozen other things you'd rather be doing. That's why I'm embarrassed-because I'm causing so much trouble."
"One," I said, "I wasn't dragooned; I volunteered. Two, there is nothing I'd rather be doing than getting to the bottom of this thing. Three, your welfare is important to your husband and to McNally and Son. None of us take the matter lightly. Speaking for my father and myself, we would be derelict in our duty if we did not make every effort possible to identify the sender. And only you can help."
"I don't see how I can, Archy," she said, pouring us more lemonade. "I haven't the faintest idea who might want to murder me."
"Have you ever been threatened in person?"
"No."
"Have you had any recent arguments with anyone?"
"No."
"What about some event in your past? Can you think of anyone who might have harbored a grudge, even for years and years?"