"I am," she said firmly. "There is no doubt in my mind. I don't know how long it had been going on. Years, I'd guess. Before Silas married Louise. She was his third wife."
"So I read in his obituary."
"And Marcia was his daughter by the first. Yes, I think it had been going on for a long time."
I drew a deep breath. "Marcia was very disturbed," I commented.
"She had every right to be," Mrs. Folsby said angrily. "What her life must have been like! So naturally Louise was her enemy."
"Naturally," I said.
"I can't tell you how poisonous they were to each other. They had a fight once. And I mean a fight with slapping and kicking. The mister broke it up."
"Dreadful," I said.
"They hated each other," she said sadly. "Jealous, you see. Louise knew what was going on. Marcia was her rival. And Marcia saw Louise as her rival. All because of that awful man. He came on to me once. Can you believe it?"
"Yes," I said, "I can believe it."
"So that's why I think she did it."
It took me a moment to sort that out. "Mrs. Folsby," I said, "are you suggesting that Louise may have murdered her stepdaughter?"
"It does not behoove me to accuse her," she said primly. "But I think the matter should be looked into."
"It shall be," I assured her. "May I have your permission to relay what you've told me to the authorities?"
"Will you give them my name?"
"Not if you don't wish it."
"I do not," she said sharply. "But if you want to tell them the other things-well, that's up to you. I've done all I can do."
"I understand completely," I said, "and I thank you for your honesty. And for your hospitality."
I finished that wretched iced tea and rose to leave. She accompanied me to the front door. Just before I departed I said, "Mrs. Folsby, do you think Marcia Hawkin killed her father?"
"No," she said, shaking her head, "she loved him too much."
I drove back to the Island in a broody mood. I figured that conversation with Mrs. Folsby had yielded one Yes, one No, and one Maybe.
The Yes was the information that Silas Hawkin was having an incestuous relationship with Marcia. After what Lolly Spindrift had told me of the man's sexual proclivities, I could believe it. And probably, as Mrs. Folsby had guessed, for many years.
The No was her accusation-or suggestion-that Louise Hawkin had killed her stepdaughter. That I could not believe. Marcia had been strangled, and that is very, very rarely the modus operandi of a murderess. Also, I did not think Louise had the strength-to be crude, it takes muscle to wring a human neck-and what could possibly be her motive since Silas, the reason for the two women's enmity, had been eliminated.
The Maybe was Mrs. Folsby's stout declaration that Marcia didn't murder her father because she loved him too much. Perhaps. But that unhinged child had also described daddy to me as the "horribilest" person in the world. Theirs could have been a love-hate affair in which the second verb finally triumphed over the first.
It was then a bit past noon and I lunched alone at Bice, ordering a hearts-of-palm salad and a single glass of sauvignon blanc. Feeling justifiably virtuous at having put a choke collar on my appetite, I returned to the McNally Building and phoned Mrs. Trelawney. I asked if the seigneur might be available for a short conference. She was absent a moment and then returned to tell me I had been granted a ten-minute audience before the boss departed for lunch with a client.
I scampered up to the sanctum and found him at his antique rolltop desk filling a briefcase with blue-bound documents.
"Can't it wait, Archy?" he said irascibly.
"Just take a moment, sir," I said. "It's something I think you should be aware of."
I related exactly what Chauncey Smythe-Hersforth had told me of the prenuptial agreement demanded by Theodosia Johnson. The sire halted his packing to listen closely. And when I mentioned the amount requested, five million dollars, one of his tangled eyebrows rose slowly as I knew it would.
"A tidy sum," he remarked wryly when I had finished. "I am not too familiar with the precedents of prenuptial agreements, but I shall certainly research the subject. Why didn't Chauncey consult me on this matter?"
"Father," I said gently, "I think he's afraid of you."
He actually snorted. "Nonsense," he said. "Am I an ogre?"
"No, sir."
"Of course not. And he obviously requires legal counsel. I suspect Chauncey's actual fear is having to inform his mother of what his fiancee has requested."
"I'd say that's close to the mark," I agreed.
He pondered a moment. "That young man does have a problem," he finally declared. "He's of age, of course, and can marry whomever he chooses without his mother's permission. But I can understand his not wishing to endanger his inheritance of the Smythe-Hersforth estate in toto. Any suggestions, Archy?"
"Yes, sir," I said. "Let me stall him as long as I can. A few things have turned up in my investigation that lead me to believe the question of a prenuptial agreement may become moot."
He stared at me. "Are you suggesting the young lady may prove to be unsuitable? Persona non grata, so to speak?"
"Possibly," I acknowledged. "But not so much as her father."
He nodded. "In that case I concur with your recommendation. Delay Chauncey's decision as best you can and redouble your efforts to bring this rather distasteful business to a successful conclusion."
"Yes, father," I said, resisting an impulse to tug my forelock.
I left his office and returned home for my ocean swim, then labored on my journal. I showered, dressed, attended the family cocktail hour, and departed for my dinner date with Connie Garcia.
And, you know, during all that time I do not believe there was a single moment when I ceased glooming about Marcia Hawkin, her life and her death. The things we do to each other! Sometimes I think I'd rather be a cocker spaniel or even a hamster rather than a human being. But I did not choose my species and so I must learn to deal with it. And it would be nice if I could become a nobler example of Homo sapiens. But I know better than to hope.
When I arrived at the Pelican Club that evening Connie was already standing at the bar surrounded by a ring of eager young studs.
She was wearing a jumpsuit of burgundy velvet with an industrial zipper from neck to pipik. Her long black hair swung free and oversized golden hoops dangled from her lobes.
But I knew it was mostly her warm vivacity that attracted that pack of hopefuls. Connie is a vibrant young woman with physical energy to spare and a spirit that seems continually effervescing. Add to that a roguish smile and Rabelaisian wit and you have a complete woman who, on a scale of 1 to 10, rates at least a 15.
She saw me standing there like a forlorn bumpkin, excused herself, and came bopping over to grant me a half-hug and an air kiss.
"Hiya, hon," she said cheerily. "I was early so I had a spritzer at the bar."
"And why not?" I said. "You look glorious tonight, Connie."
"You like?" she asked, twirling for my inspection. "The tush isn't too noticeable?"
"Not too," I said. "Never too."
"Let's go eat," she said. "I'm starving."
I wish I could tell you the evening was an unalloyed delight, but I must confess that dinner was something less than a joyful occasion.
It wasn't the food because chef Leroy Pettibone scored with a marvelous special of fried rabbit in a cranberry-orange sauce. And it wasn't Connie's fault because she was her usual bubbling self.
No, the fault was totally mine. I knew it and was utterly incapable of summoning up the McNally esprit. I seemed unable to utter anything but banalities-mercifully brief banalities-and I realized I was behaving like a zombie on barbiturates.