McNally's Dilemma (28 page)

Naturally, I wasn’t going to tell John Fairhurst that I strongly believed his blackmailer had his sticky fingers in more than one pie. Nor was I going to tell him the bum might have those sticky fingers on the steering wheel of the family Rolls. It might be a tad too premature for both those assumptions, don’t-you-know. But I was curious as to exactly what Fairhurst had in mind regarding the final warning in the second letter. It seemed it was also
Il Momento de la Verdad
for John Fairhurst III, and if I feared the worst I wasn’t going to be disappointed.

“Mr. Fairhurst, when you came to us you said you didn’t want to capitulate to the blackmailer, correctly assuming that he would not stop his demands for money after the first payout, blackmailers being a more greedy lot than other malefactors. You also said you did not want the police brought into this, for obvious reasons. Now we know where we can contact the blackmailer or his accomplice. If we don’t deliver the money, he will sing. If we bring in the police, he will sing. If we give in to his demands, you’ll never get him off your back. If I manage to apprehend him, I have no power to arrest him or to guarantee that he will quietly back off with his tail between his legs. In short, sir, where do we go from here?”

It didn’t take Fairhurst long to reject all my options and answer my question. “I hired you, Archy, to locate the blackmailer and name him. That’s all.”

“That’s all, sir?”

“Yes. You have a contact point and forty-eight hours to finger the bastard.”

“And then, sir?”

“And then you submit your bill and I write you a check.”

Archy, the angel of death!

I
N THE FINAL REEL
of the old Andy Hardy films, a contrite Andy would be summoned to the family den, where his father, the Judge, would censure the brash young man for whatever wrong he had committed in pursuit of keeping the film’s plot aboil and the audience entertained. The scene was inevitably a learning experience for both Andy and his faithful followers.

The Judge and his offspring did not enjoy a glass of port, as did Father and I. I could not, however, help but compare McNally & Son to Judge Hardy & Son as we sat in our den on this rainy November night, due, I imagine, to the solemnity of our conversation.

At dinner, Mother had talked of nothing but Dora’s impending visit for the Christmas season, and now she was in the kitchen with Ursi, no doubt discussing, for the hundredth time, the logistics of putting up a family of five and keeping three children entertained while awaiting Santa’s descent down the chimney. In the den, Father and I discussed more weighty matters.

Although I find domestic chatter tedious, I would rather, at this moment, have been in the kitchen than the den.

After I had outlined the situation to Father, I concluded by saying, “Please remember, sir, that as of now I have proof of nothing. I don’t know if Veronica Manning purposely set out to hire a woman to impersonate the Mystery Woman, and I don’t know if Seth Walker is the blackmailer. All I have to connect the two is this Linda Adams and an address in Boynton Beach.”

“But the connection is more than Boynton Beach, Archy. It’s specifically a trailer court in Boynton Beach. That shortens the odds considerably.”

“I agree,” I told him.

“In law, as you know, the accused is considered innocent until proven guilty. In this case, I think we have to assume Veronica and Seth are guilty until, and if, you can prove them innocent.” Father sipped his port before continuing. “Do you think Veronica realized how harmful hiring a witness for her mother could be to Melva’s defense once the prosecution learned of the deception?”

I thought about the lovely girl I had held in my arms as Dinah took us to faraway places. How easy it would be to run off with Veronica Manning with nary a backward glance nor a moment’s regret. “No, sir. I’m certain her only thought was to do all she could to help her mother and, given her upbringing, hiring help was the easiest way out. And I don’t doubt I had something to do with her decision.”

“You, Archy?”

“Oh, I never suggested conjuring up a phony witness. But I did tell her, more than once, how important the Mystery Woman was to Melva’s defense. Veronica soon suggested offering a million-dollar reward for information leading to the Mystery Woman.”

The rain was coming down in torrents now, pelting our windows and, for the moment, diverting our attention from the business at hand. It was a true Florida winter downpour.

“If Veronica had used this Seth to engage a witness, I would guess it would be for a considerable amount of money,” Father now said.

“No doubt about that. Not a million, I’m sure, but a large sum nonetheless.”

“Then why would he want to jeopardize a sweet deal with this blackmail scam? I would imagine he’d have enough to worry about with prepping this Linda Adams for her role.”

“I thought about that,” I answered. “Veronica told me the last time she saw Seth was when I picked her up at Hillcrest, the night of the murder. If she did contact Seth again, about finding a Mystery Woman, it would have been a few days after that night. Fairhurst got the blackmailer’s first letter the day before Geoff’s murder. What I mean, sir, is that Seth didn’t know he would have a more lucrative job when he sent the blackmail note.”

“I can appreciate that,” Father quickly put in, “but why didn’t he abort the blackmail scheme when he came into better pickings, or at least change the venue where the money was to be delivered so as not to connect it to the Mystery Woman’s address?”

I had thought about that, too. In fact, I had thought about nothing but these two cases since leaving the Fairhurst house this afternoon. “Because he’s a wise guy and wise guys are often very stupid when it comes to lining their wallets. However, if we want to give this wise guy the benefit of the doubt, I would say he either forgot to tell Linda Adams not to give the police the Boynton Beach address, or someone other than himself, Linda, for instance, was in charge of posting the second letter and he forgot to either cancel it or change the delivery address.

“And let’s not forget that Seth has no idea that I, or anyone else, is investigating the blackmail plot. He, and all of Fairhurst’s staff, think I questioned them on Melva’s behalf, thanks to Seth’s tie-in to Geoff Williams.” Even as I spoke I remembered my reaction to Fairhurst’s comment that Seth Walker had been recommended to him by Geoff Williams. Odd as it now seemed, these two cases had a common link even before Veronica sought the help of Seth Walker—if she sought the help of Seth Walker.

“Maybe Seth got a bit too cocky and thought Fairhurst would just hand over the money. If no one was wise to the blackmail scam, no one would connect the two crimes with the Boynton Beach address,” I added.

“So many questions, Archy, so many questions.” The rain had abated and we sat in silence, cogitating for a few moments, before Father spoke again. “And I don’t like what John Fairhurst might be up to, either.”

Now that had to be the understatement of the century and we had very little time left to top it.

“I don’t think there’s any question of what he intends to do, sir,” I insisted.

“You think he’ll put a contract out for the blackmailer?” Father was in a tizzy over the thought of one of Fairhurst’s ilk acting like a gangster in a B movie.

“I beg your pardon, but I think men like John Fairhurst do what they must do to maintain their privileged positions in our classless society. He was the keeper of the family secret and when he gets that final date etched on his portrait’s brass plate he doesn’t want to be remembered as the guy who lifted Grandpa’s skirts to expose boxers instead of bloomers.”

Father winced. “You do have a colorful vocabulary, Archy, if a bit vulgar at times.”

“Sorry, sir. I think Seth Walker is a punk who deserves what he gets, but I don’t think he, or anyone, deserves to dive into Lake Worth wearing cement espadrilles. I also think Fairhurst wants to ask the blackmailer a few questions, such as where he learned what he knows.”

“If Seth Walker is our man, you think he received the information from the secretary, Arnold Turnbolt?” Father reiterated what we had discussed earlier, clearly avoiding the subject of where Arnold Turnbolt had come by his information.

“I do. I think he told Seth to impress the chauffeur with his knowledge of family lore. Arnold, as I’ve already mentioned, was quite taken with the boy.”

“And if John Fairhurst learns this, you fear for the secretary, Arnold Turnbolt?”

“No, sir. I fear for Mrs. Fairhurst.”

Another silence. There were moments in my conversations with Father when the silences were more poignant than our words.

“Do you think you should confront Veronica and Seth directly?” Father asked.

“No, sir, I do not. I don’t want to tip our hand before I have all the facts.”

“I agree,” Father said. “Also, if Linda Adams is a plant, do you think the real Mystery Woman will show up to refute this Linda’s claim?”

“No way. If the real Mystery Woman hasn’t turned herself in by now, she never will. Geoff Williams rubbed shoulders with the cream of Palm Beach and New York society, and I believe the woman he was with that night is a well-known figure in either or both groups—or even a friend of Veronica’s. When she learns a Mystery Woman has shown up, she’ll no doubt be relieved that she can keep her nose clean with a clear conscience. Both she and Melva are saved.”

“Then wouldn’t Melva have recognized the woman?”

“Not necessarily, given the circumstances. The woman fled minutes after Melva came into the room and Melva was in a blind rage, as they say.”

Father, staunch defender of the rich and noble, asked, “Why would a woman from that social set go back to the house with Geoff, knowing Melva was there?”

“Why did two heiresses and a movie star marry Porfirio Rubirosa?”

To his credit, Father did not blush. Instead, he finished his port and enjoyed his cigar. “And you don’t think the woman was Seth’s mother?”

“Melva said the woman was young, and Seth is twenty-five at least. His mother can’t be young. Also, a woman like her would have come forward the moment the reward was announced. That type doesn’t have to save face.”

“I see,” Father sighed. “What do you intend to do now, Archy?”

“First, I’m going to scout that Boynton Beach trailer park and see if I can learn who hangs their hat in
numero
nine. If the blackmailer was foolish enough to give us his address it’s because he doesn’t believe anyone is on his tail. I think I have a good chance of learning what we want to know there.”

“And then, Archy?”

“And then, sir—I don’t know. I honestly don’t know.”

“That’s too bad, Archy, because neither do I.”

A red Miata convertible pulling into a trailer court would be as subtle as arriving in a Sherman tank. Therefore, I borrowed mother’s Ford station wagon for my trip to Boynton Beach. Last night’s rain had cleared the air, but not the skies. It was a brisk, breezy gray morning that showed no promise of change in the foreseeable future. Boynton Beach is due south of us, situated between Palm Beach and Delray Beach. The old reliable Ford made it to the center of Boynton in less than thirty minutes.

Linda Adams had gone to the police two days ago. Yesterday’s papers reported only that the police were questioning a woman they believed was the Mystery Woman. This morning’s papers said the Mystery Woman had been identified and gave her name as Linda Adams of Boynton Beach. The police had wisely not given out her street address. With any luck, I would be the only snooper at the BB Trailer Court.

The court was a miniature city laid out in a grid and inhabited, no doubt, by snowbirds in the winter and a smattering of year-rounders. Too early for the snowbird migration, the court was very quiet this early afternoon, with few cars evident in the one parking space allotted each trailer. I entered beneath an arch supported by brick pillars. The words
BB TRAILER COURT
were emblazoned across the arch. I cruised up the main street, which was lined on both sides with trailers mounted on slabs of concrete.

In a concerted effort at individuality, every trailer was painted a different color—mostly pastels—leading me to believe that if I clicked my heels together three times I would awake in Kansas in the loving arms of Aunty Em. All of them came with a wrought-iron railing guarding two steps and a patio just large enough to contain one tacky mesh beach chair, and a front door painted in a shade not remotely resembling the trailer’s facade. Quite a few of the trailers boasted window boxes containing dead flowers. The BB Trailer Court, to my mind, gave new meaning to the epithet “Florida Modern.”

Number nine was right on the main drag, toward the rear, and devoid of a car in its parking space. I took advantage of this by filling the void with the Ford wagon. Mounting the two steps, I knocked on the door with a brass knocker in the shape of—what else?—the number nine. Cute.

I did not get a response from within, but I did catch a glimpse of a café curtain being parted in the window of number nine’s neighbor. I continued to pound the knocker, knowing that if I did so long enough the curious neighbor would leave the window and come out of her door on some pretext or other. I did, and she did. She emerged, wearing what I believe is called a housecoat, knee-length, upon which were printed nursery rhyme characters. At a glance, I spotted Jack ’n’ Jill; Mary, Mary, Quite Contrary, watering her garden; Jack Horner and his Christmas pie; and a lad jumping over a candlestick. On her feet were pink mules. On her head were blue curlers. In her hands was a green bath-size rug she began shaking over her wrought-iron railing.

I knocked and she shook. Sooner or later one of us had to give, and it was the shaker, not the knocker.

“You a reporter?” she called in a northeast accent too often attributed solely to residents of Brooklyn—which is unjust. The other four boroughs and northern New Jersey also harbor those brandishing inflections that should be deemed assault weapons.

I hadn’t yet decided how I would present myself in Boynton Beach, but a reporter was as good a calling card as any other, so I called back, “Yes. How’d you guess?”