McNally's risk

"Sounds like he'd be capable of killing Shirley Feebling."

"I'd say so," Rogoff agreed. "And now he's an investment adviser in Fort Lauderdale?"

"That's what the sign on his office claims. But in view of Johnson's history, Hagler might be a front and Hector is calling the shots."

"Wouldn't be a bit surprised. What do you suppose Johnson's angle is on all this?"

I shook my head. "Can't figure it," I confessed, "but there's obviously frigging in the rigging."

We sat in silence awhile, trying to imagine scenarios that made some loopy kind of sense. But neither of us had any suggestions to offer.

"Al," I said, "how did you make out this morning when you talked to Louise Hawkin?"

"You were right," he said. "The lady was totally befuddled. And you know what? I think Hector Johnson means to keep her that way."

I will not say his comment was the key to the whole meshugass. But it did start me thinking in a new direction. I began to get a vague notion of what might be going on.

"Do you believe that letter Marcia Hawkin gave me?" I asked the sergeant. "Do you think she really did kill her father?"

He shrugged. "Beats me. Maybe yes, maybe no. If he had given her motive, I'd be more certain one way or the other."

"Me, too," I said. "Any word yet on that stained sheet or whatever it was we saw in the back of her Cherokee?"

"Nothing yet. These tests take time; you know that."

I stared at him a moment, then decided to put my vague notion to the test. "Are you a betting man, Al?"

"I've been known to place a small wager now and then."

"Tell you what," I said. "I'll bet you ten bucks I can tell you what those stains on the sheet are even before the tests are completed."

"They're not blood," he said. "I told you she was strangled."

"I know they're not blood. But I know what they are. Is it a bet?"

"Okay," he said. "For ten bucks. What are they?"

"Acrylic paint."

He took a swig of his beer. "How the hell did you come up with that?"

"A swami told me."

"If you turn out to be right, tell the swami there's a job waiting for him in the PBPD."

"I think I'm right," I said, "but I don't want your ten dollars. I want a favor instead."

He groaned. "I'd rather pay the ten."

"A simple favor," I said. "Get back to your Michigan contact and ask if they've got anything on Theodosia Johnson, Hector's daughter. The last name may be different but 'Theodosia' is probably for real. What woman would use that as an alias? And you met her this morning, you can describe her accurately. Or send Michigan a photo of that Silas Hawkin portrait."

He looked at me a long time. "She's involved?" he asked.

"I would prefer to think not."

"Screw what you'd prefer," he said roughly. "Do you figure she is?"

"As you just said about Marcia Hawkin, maybe yes, maybe no. This is one way to find out."

"I guess," he said, sighing. "All right, I'll play your little game. I'll query Michigan just for the fun of it. But our sawbuck bet is still on."

I finished my beer, grabbed a fistful of peanuts, and stood up. "I'm going home," I declared. "It's been a long, tumultuous day, and bed beckons."

"Yeah," Rogoff said, "I could do with some shut-eye myself. Thanks for the beer."

"And thank you for the peanuts," I said politely. "Al, let me know if anything turns up."

"Sure," he said. "And Archy…"

"Yes."

"That Reuben Hagler sounds like a foursquare wrongo. Watch your back."

"I always do," I said blithely.

By the time I returned home my parents had retired. I ascended to my seventh heaven and prepared for bed. I had had quite enough mental stimulation for one day and decided to postpone adding recent revelations to my journal.

I awoke on Friday morning ready for a fight or a frolic-or perhaps both simultaneously. Again I had overslept and was forced to construct my own breakfast. It consisted of leftover mini-pizzas from dinner the previous evening.

Before leaving home I remembered to phone Consuela Garcia as I had promised. She was at work in her office and was already in a snit trying to answer the demands of Lady Horowitz. I was hoping for a lazy, affectionate chat, but Connie made it short and sweet. Well… not exactly. Just short. But she did agree to meet me for dinner that evening at the Pelican Club.

I then tooled over to the McNally Building to check my messages (none) and incoming correspondence (none). My business day was starting auspiciously. I finished my inventive expense account, signed it with a flourish, and dropped the completed document on the desk of Ray Gelding, the firm's treasurer. He glanced at the total.

"You've got to be kidding," he said.

I treated that remark with the silent contempt it so richly deserved, bounced downstairs, and vaulted into the Miata for a drive to West Palm Beach and my appointment with Mrs. Jane Folsby.

Her sister's home was located in a neighborhood I can only term bucolic and was more bungalow than South Florida split-level ranch. Rose bushes were plentiful and the front yard boasted two orchid trees that would have elicited gasps of awe from my mother. The house itself was freshly painted and had a semicircular stained-glass window over the front door. Very nice.

Mrs. Folsby answered my knock and seemed pleased to see me. She led the way to a small, brightly furnished living room in the rear with windows mercifully facing north. Everything was flowered chintz but not overpowering, and the white wicker armchair I sat in was comfortable enough.

She insisted on serving minted iced tea. I told her how delicious it was-which wasn't quite the truth. Then we agreed that South Florida was, indeed, hot in midsummer. We also concurred that crime rates were too high and youngsters today had little respect for their elders.

Then there was a pause in this brilliant conversation. "About Marcia Hawkin…" I prompted.

"Yes," she said, looking down and moving a gold wedding band around and around on her finger. "I don't know how to say this, Mr. McNally."

"Take your time," I said encouragingly. "I am not a policeman, you know, although Sergeant Al Rogoff is a close friend. But if you wish this conversation to remain confidential, I shall certainly respect your wishes."

"That's for you to decide," she said. "The only reason I'm telling you is that a crime has been committed, and someone should be punished."

I have previously described her as "old, large, creaky," and with a chirpy voice. But now I saw something in her I had not recognized before: strong will and stiff determination. Not a woman to be trifled with, and I wondered how she had endured the disorder of the Hawkin menage. Economic reasons, I supposed; she needed the money.

"I hadn't been with the Hawkins long," she started, "before I realized something was going on."

Again there was a short lull. I didn't want to spur her with questions, feeling it best to let her tell the story at her own pace.

"Mrs. Louise Hawkin and Marcia…" she finally continued. "Always at each other. I thought it was because Louise was a stepmother. Sometimes daughters resent it. And her drinking so much," she added. "The missus, that is."

I nodded.

"But it was more than that," she went on. "I don't know how to tell this and I wouldn't blame you if you didn't believe me, but I've got to say it."

I waited.

She looked away from me. "Silas Hawkin," she said, and her voice was dry, "the mister, he was bedding his daughter. I know that for a fact."

I took a gulp of my iced tea. "You're certain of this, Mrs. Folsby?"