"You don't think his mother will approve of a prenup agreement, Archy?"
"I don't. Do you?"
"I guess not," she said. "The old bitch doesn't even approve of me. I knew that from the start. What did you tell Chauncey to do?"
"I stalled him. Until I had a chance to talk to you about it and see how you felt."
She reached across the table to pat my cheek. "Good boy," she said.
We were silent while our emptied plates were removed. We both declined coffee, but I ordered bowls of fresh raspberries.
"You're a clever lad, Archy," Madam X said. "I'll just bet you've got an answer up your sleeve."
"There is one possibility," I admitted, giving her a straight-in-the-eye stare. "Have your own attorney draw up the prenuptial agreement for five million. My father doesn't have to know about it and Chauncey's mother doesn't have to know about it."
The simplicity of my solution stunned her and she took a moment to grasp it. "And you'll tell Chauncey to sign it?" she asked, almost breathlessly.
I switched into my enigmatic mode and didn't give her a direct reply. "Think about it," I urged her. "Talk it over with your father. Frankly, Theo, I think it's your only hope. But it's your decision. Now let's eat our raspberries. Don't they look delicious!"
"Archy," she said, "daddy is over at Louise Hawkins place."
"Is he?" I said. "And when is he returning home?"
"Probably tomorrow morning," she said, and we smiled at each other.
I shall not attempt to apologize for my conduct during the remainder of that afternoon. I agree that "reprehensible" is as good an adjective as any to describe my behavior. But I do have an excuse: The devil made me do it.
We drove back to Theo's condo. Once again she led me to that appalling cretonne-covered couch, and once again I saw the blue butterfly flutter and take wing.
She was mystery incarnate. Ignoring her physical beauty-which I certainly did not-I sensed there was a fury in her convulsions. I do not believe I was the cause of her anger; it was her malignant destiny that enraged her, and she rebelled with puissance and a bravado that asserted her strength and independence.
I returned home exhausted and saddened, although if what I suspected was accurate, there was little reason for my sorrow. Still, I find it depressing when people with admirable attributes put their talents to wicked use.
I conducted myself with stately decorum during the evening routine of family cocktail hour and dinner. I do not believe either of my dear progenitors had any inkling of the deception I had practiced that afternoon.
After dinner I retired upstairs to work on my journal. I had hardly started scribbling when Sgt. Al Rogoff phoned.
"How many chukkers of polo did you play today?" he demanded.
"None," I replied.
"How many sets of tennis?"
"None."
"How many holes of golf?"
"None."
"Heavens to Betsy," he said, "what's happening to the primo playboy of Palm Beach? Then what have you been up to?"
"Investigating," I said. "I do work occasionally, you know."
"You could have fooled me," he said. "Hey, I told Lauderdale about Reuben Hagler and that Pinky Schatz. They can't locate him, but they've planted an undercover policewoman in the Leopard Club."
"Yikes!" I said. "Surely not as a nude dancer."
"Nope," Al said, laughing. "I guess she's not qualified. They put her in as a waitress. Her job is to buddy up to the Schatz woman and try to get her to spill."
"It might work," I said, "but I doubt it."
"Me, too," Rogoff admitted. "But one never knows, do one?"
"Al, will you stop stealing my line? You're infringing my copyright."
"Don't tell me you made it up."
"No," I confessed, "it's not original. I think Louis Armstrong said it first, or maybe it was Fats Waller. I don't remember."
"Talk about remembering," he said, "I just did. I owe you ten bucks."
"What?" I said, and then I recalled our bet and knew the real reason he had phoned. "You mean that sheet in the back of Marcia Hawkin's Jeep had acrylic paint stains?"
"Yep," he said, "but it wasn't a sheet. More like a drop cloth. Now tell me how you knew the stains were acrylic paint."
"Gut instinct," I said, and Al, who has as much contempt for that phrase as I do, roared with laughter.
"Bullshit!" he said. "You know something I don't know and you're holding out on me. This is a homicide investigation, you charlie, so let's have it."
"I really didn't know," I said. "I was just guessing. Listen to this Al…"
I told him of my conversations with Luther Grabow, the art supply dealer, and how Silas Hawkin had purchased a palette of acrylics to paint a nude on a wood panel.
"Nice job, sherlock," Rogoff said when I had finished. "You figure the nude on wood was the painting Hawkin labeled 'Untitled' in his ledger?"
"Yes, I think so."
"Oh, boy," he said. "Bubble, bubble, toil and trouble."
"It's 'Double, double toil and trouble,' " I told him.
"Whatever," he said. "Got any idea who the model was?"
"Nope."
"Could it have been his daughter? She ices him like she said in that letter and then swipes the painting because she's afraid it might incriminate her."
"Could be," I said. "You reckon she had it in the car when she went in the drink?"
"A possibility," Rogoff said. "I'll send divers down to look around and see if they can spot it. Maybe it floated out of the Cherokee."
"If it floated out," I said, "it would be on the surface, wouldn't it?"
"Yeah, you're right. That scenario doesn't wash. But I still think she had the 'Untitled' painting in her possession sometime during the evening she was killed."
"And now someone else has it?"
"Sure," he said. "Unless she burned it or hacked it to splinters. That's what I like about my job: Everything is cut and dried."
"I know what you mean. Al, did you hear anything from Michigan about Theodosia Johnson?"
"Not yet. Archy, tell me something: Do you think the Shirley Feebling kill in Fort Lauderdale has anything to do with Marcia Hawkin's murder?"
I hesitated. "Yes," I said finally.
"Uh-huh," he said, "that's what I figured. Are the Johnsons involved?"
"It's all supposition."
"Sure it is," he agreed. "Like meat loaf; you don't know what's in it. We're tracing Marcia's movements the night she was killed and we've got what we tell the newspapers are 'promising leads.' Maybe they are, maybe they're not, but I'll keep working my end, old buddy, and you keep working yours. Eventually we may take the gold, though I'll settle for the bronze."
"Me, too," I said.
"See you," he said shortly, and hung up.
I sat there, stared at my open journal, and decided I didn't want to labor on a Saturday night. So I pulled on a nylon golf jacket (Day-Glo orange) and clattered downstairs to my wheels. I headed south on Ocean Boulevard to eyeball the Hawkin home, Villa Bile. I didn't have to stop to see that Hector Johnson's white Lincoln was parked outside.
Then I made an illegal U-turn and sped off to the Pelican Club. I was in dire need of a plasma injection, for what I envisioned had happened to Silas Hawkin, Shirley Feebling, and Marcia Hawkin seemed too awful to endure without Dutch courage.
It was still early so it was no surprise to find the club relatively quiescent. I tested Simon Pettibone by ordering an obscure cocktail from my antique Bartender's Guide.
"I would appreciate a Frankenjack," I stated.