McNally's Puzzle (10 page)

She preceded me, tittupping into the dining room where one corner of the long table had been set for two. Lighted candles flickered in frosted hurricane lamps. I discerned a faint odor of an exotic incense—but this being South Florida, it might have been roach spray.

“I thought we’d start with a little hot sake,” Yvonne said. “Not too much; it’s powerful stuff. Just enough to wake up our appetites. You approve?”

“Sounds wonderful,” I said manfully, even though my appetite is always on the
qui vive
and I would have preferred something icy and astringent.

I don’t know if Yvonne had a floor buzzer or if the maid had been lurking, but Mei Lee suddenly appeared bearing a black lacquer tray that held a small pot and two wee vessels no larger than eyecups.

“Good evening, Mei,” I said, smiling at her.

“Ver’ ver’ happy,” she said, giggling.

She poured us tiny tots of the warmed sake and padded away. We sampled and Yvonne looked at me inquiringly.

“Excellent,” I said—only a slight exaggeration. “But not something I’d care to drink all evening if I hope to remain vertical.”

“Oh, no,” she said. “Just an aperitif. We’ll have your wine with dinner. Archy, I can’t tell you how grateful I am you could join me. With everyone gone for the evening I’d have been forced to endure a lonely meal—very depressing. Thank you so much.”

I thought she was laying it on with a trowel, but perhaps she was sincere. Perhaps. But there was no doubt she was playing the gracious hostess and I couldn’t fault her for that.

“My pleasure,” I told her. “Will Mr. Gottschalk and Ricardo be gone long?”

“They’ll be back tomorrow afternoon. It’s really a buying trip. All the bird wholesalers show what they have to offer and retail stores like Parrots Unlimited make their selections.”

“Are you interested in parrots?” I asked her.

“Not much,” she admitted, and gave me a bent smile. “I prefer chickens, ducks, capons, quail, and pheasants. Roasted of course.”

“Of course,” I agreed. “You and I think much alike.”

“I know we do,” she said, so firmly that my original impression of this woman was confirmed: she was Ms. Resolute. I suspected even her whims were inviolable.

I wish I could describe the dinner served that evening in precise detail but I cannot since all the dishes were foreign to me. I had to depend on Yvonne to tell me what we were eating. To the best of my recollection this was the menu:

Seaweed rolls with black mushrooms, green onions, and minced baked ham in a paste of chicken breast, dry sherry, and other disremembered ingredients.

Eight-treasure winter melon soup with lean pork, crabmeat, and shrimp.

Spicy chilled noodles.

Steamed ginger chicken with mandarin pancakes.

Crispy nut pockets with pitted dates, roasted peanuts, and honey.

A pot of steaming tea was available but both Yvonne and I went for the merlot.

I enjoyed that meal, I think, but I was more perplexed than delighted. I had never eaten such food before and so I could not judge whether it was excellently or poorly prepared. I could identify such seasonings as ginger, fennel, and cinnamon. But when Yvonne casually mentioned star anise, lotus seeds, and fuzzy melon, she lost me.

Our exotic dinner completed, we moved to a comfortable corner of the blowzy living room. Yvonne brought our snifters of Armagnac, which was exactly what I needed to relax my uvula. We sat close together on the tattered velvet love seat.

“A remarkable feast,” I said to her. “And I thank you.”

“You enjoyed it?” she asked, and I thought her glance was mischievous.

“It was different,” I admitted. “Something I’ve never had before and I’m still trying to sort out my reactions. At least it makes me question if a meat-and-potatoes diet is not dreadfully limiting.”

“It is,” she said decisively. “I wish Mr. Gottschalk would learn that. Got Lee rarely gets a chance to practice his art. He really is an excellent chef, you know, but Hiram insists on red meat and perhaps a baked potato slathered with sour cream and chives. I hate to think of what it’s doing to his arteries.”

I smiled but said nothing. If Mr. Gottschalk, at his age, preferred a broiled sirloin to stir-fried veggies it was surely his choice to make and should be respected.

“But he simply won’t listen to me,” she continued, staring into space. “Even though he’s aware of the unhealthy effects of his favorite foods.” She paused to turn her head and look at me directly, unblinking. “But then he’s been behaving so strangely lately.”

She stopped and waited for my response. I didn’t say, “Ah-
ha
!” aloud of course, nor did I even
think
, Ah-
ha
! But mommy didn’t raise her son to be an idiot and I knew very well we had now arrived at the nub of the evening; to wit, why I had been invited for dinner à deux.

“Behaving strangely?” I repeated. “How so?”

“He has these wild ideas,” she said. “Delusions really. He misplaces things and believes someone in the house has stolen them. He breaks things accidentally and accuses others of their destruction. Our mynah, Dicky, died a natural death but Hiram is convinced the bird was killed. Archy, I’m telling you these things only because you represent Mr. Gottschalk’s attorney and I felt you should be aware of his increasing... his increasing...”

I suspected she wanted to say craziness but thought better of it. “Irrational behavior?” I suggested.

“Yes,” she said gratefully. “Exactly. His increasing irrational behavior.”

“Do you believe he needs professional help? A psychotherapist perhaps or even a psychiatrist?”

“I don’t know,” she said, frowning. “I really don’t. But his conduct troubles me. Sometimes I fear he is not all there, if you know what I mean. Archy, I hope you’ll repeat what I’ve told you only to your father. After all, he is Mr. Gottschalk’s attorney and I think he should be made aware of his client’s condition.”

“Of course,” I said. “I shall certainly inform him.”

Then, having accomplished what she had obviously planned, she relaxed. We spent a pleasant final half hour chattering about saloon singers of the past we had both heard, live or on recordings: Tommy Lyman, Helen Morgan, Nellie Lutcher, and many others long gone but not forgotten.

Finally, my Mickey Mouse watch edging toward eleven, I rose to take my leave and thank her again for her hospitality.

“And you won’t forget to tell your father?” she said. “About Hiram.”

“I won’t forget,” I promised. “Father should know of this unhappy development.”

“Good boy,” she said, patting my cheek, and I wondered if the moment I left she would hasten to her record of pupils’ deportment and paste a small gold star next to the name of A. McNally.

But teacher relented at the door to grasp me close and bestow a firm if brief smooch on my lips. “Thank you so much for the wine,” she breathed. “And just for being here. You made my evening, darling.”

If she was acting she deserved a tin Oscar at least.

O
NE OF SGT. AL ROGOFF’S
favorite jokes, oft repeated, is: “Last night I slept like a baby; I woke up crying every two hours.” My slumber on Friday night wasn’t quite as disturbed but it was fitful enough. I simply could not relax but kept flopping about like a beached mackerel.

It wasn’t all those spicy viands I had consumed that were causing my distress; it was a mental malaise I could not identify. I had a vague feeling of unease, as if vile plots were astir at the Gottschalk manse I was powerless to foil. I had a disheartening suspicion I was being used, manipulated, for what purpose I could not imagine.

Finally, the dark at my window just beginning to gray, I sank into a deep sleep, mercifully dreamless. When I awoke and glanced at my bedside clock it was pushing ten-thirty. I had all the symptoms of a racking hangover, which was outrageous since my alcoholic intake the previous evening had been if not minimal then certainly restrained.

It required a shave and a long hot shower followed by a cold rinse to restore the McNally carcass to any semblance of normalcy. I pulled on my usual Saturday morning costume of T-shirt, jeans, and loafers. But before descending for a late breakfast I remembered to phone the dog shelter to ask if someone would be in attendance on Sunday. I was assured they’d be open and would welcome visitors.

I found Jamie Olson in the kitchen brewing a fresh pot of coffee: a welcome sight. I poured myself a tall glass of chilled tomato juice into which I stirred a bit of horseradish. I also toasted two big slices of Ursi’s homemade sour rye. Those I smeared with cream cheese allegedly flavored with smoked salmon although I couldn’t taste it. Then Jamie and I sat at the enameled kitchen table, sipping cautiously at our steaming coffee mugs.

I told him about Hobo and how my parents had agreed to take a look at him on Sunday after church.

“A terrier?” Jamie said.

“Sort of. A mixed breed but mostly terrier. He looks to be strong and I’ve seen him run. He’s fast.”

“Uh-huh. Male?”

“Yes. Short coat.”

“Been fixed?”

“Yes.”

“How old?”

“Two or three years. Around three.”

“He might tree that raccoon.”

“I think there’s a good chance,” I said, “if you urge him on. He’s one smart hound.”

“We’ll see,” Jamie said. “Some terriers can be hell on wheels. Others just whimper and go hide.”

“Hobo won’t whimper,” I told him. “He’s got too much pride.”

“Mebbe,” Jamie said, and lighted up his old, pungent briar. And I had my first cigarette of the day in self-defense.

We smoked awhile in silence. Jamie is a taciturn man; he considers small talk a waste of time. So I refrained from commenting on the weather or the high cost of haircuts.

Finally he said, “Those staffers you asked about.”

It took a mo to get my brain into gear. The effect of sleep deprivation, no doubt. “Got and Mei Lee, chef and maid for Hiram Gottschalk?”

“Yep,” Jamie said. “I asked my friend Eddie Wong about them.” He paused.

“And?” I said.

“They’re closemouthed, that lot. But Eddie says Got and Mei are looking for a new spot.”

“Oh? They want to leave the Gottschalks?”

“Eddie says so.”

“Did he say why?”

“Nope. Just they want to go. If Eddie knows why, he ain’t saying. But he made a face.”

“Thanks for your help, Jamie.”

“Not much,” he said. “But when people don’t want to talk they won’t.”

A truism if ever I heard one. But Jamie had provided another small piece of the puzzle bedeviling me. I washed up my breakfast things, stacked them in the countertop drainer to dry, and returned upstairs to my dorm. I confess I had a fleeting thought a short nap would be welcome, but I determinedly discarded such a disgraceful notion and continued to function.

For the remainder of the morning I scribbled in my journal, not only noting recent events and intelligence but posing questions to myself which I am certain you are also asking as you follow this chronicle. Nothing at the moment made a great deal of sense. But as I explained to Binky Watrous on one occasion, enduring a temporary mishmash is a challenge to an investigator’s patience, determination, and acumen. The reaction was vintage Binky.

“What?” he said.

It was about one p.m. when I finished my grunt work, much too late to call pals for a round of golf, a set of tennis, or any other energetic activity. Besides, I was in no mood or physical condition for strenuous exertion except a jolly game of jacks or a rollicking session of mumblety-peg.

I changed into jazzier threads, including a sport jacket of black and white awning stripes. My father once unkindly remarked it made me look like a fugitive from a chain gang. I didn’t dare mention that his sport jackets seemed designed for wear at memorial services for President Millard Fillmore.

I set out for the Pelican Club, my spirits already beginning to ascend. I anticipated a quiet, soothing hour or more, perhaps exchanging philosophical profundities with Mr. Simon Pettibone. I would imbibe an exhilarating alcoholic concoction or two. I might even enjoy one of Leroy’s special burgers with a slice of red onion atop. Suddenly life was once again worth living and I found myself singing “I Don’t Want to Set the World on Fire.” As I recalled, the rest of the lyric went, “I just want to start a flame in your heart.” Can gangsta rap compete with that?

The Pelican was almost deserted, as I knew it would be on a pleasant Saturday afternoon. The golden lads and lasses would be cavorting on the courts, links, beach, or mayhap just swinging idly in a hammock for two.

I stopped at the bar to exchange greetings with our club manager.

“Something to wet the whistle, Mr. McNally?” he inquired.

I considered. “Perhaps I’ll move to the dining room and have a spot of lunch. I’ll see what Leroy is pushing and ask Priscilla to bring me a fitting beverage to sluice it down.”

He leaned across the bar and beckoned me close. “Peter Gottschalk is back there,” he warned in a low voice. “By himself.”

“Ah,” I said. “What condition?”

“Sober but quiet. Very quiet. I’d say depressed.”

“Tell you what,” I said. “Mix me a stiff vodka gimlet now, please, and I’ll have a gulp of Dutch courage before I join him. Perhaps I’ll cheer him up.”

“Or perhaps he’ll depress you.”

“A distinct possibility,” I admitted.

I took a swig of the sturdy gimlet and headed for the dining area. Peter was seated alone at a corner table. There was a half-empty pilsner of beer before him, a basket of salted pretzels, and a saucer of mustard. He was staring moodily at this feast and didn’t look up until I spoke.

“H’lo, Peter,” I said, trying to sound chirrupy.

“Oh,” he said. “Yeah. Hi, Archy.”

“May I join you?”

“If you like. I should warn you I’m lousy company.”

“I’ll take my chances,” I said, and slid into the chair facing him.

“I goofed,” he said suddenly. “I guess you heard.”

“No, I heard nothing,” I lied. “How did you goof?”

“Totaled the old man’s car. The night of the party.”

“Were you hurt?”