McNally's Puzzle (6 page)

It was a kaleidoscopic evening and I shall not attempt to give it a linear or temporal sequence.

I was standing at their modest bar, adding a bit of aqua to my 80-proof, when I felt a light touch on my shoulder. I turned to face a smiling woman, mature, stalwart, and not much shorter than I. She was quite dark: tanned complexion, jetty hair, black eyebrows that looked as if they had been squeezed from tubes.

“Good evening!” she said in a hearty contralto voice. “I’m Yvonne Chrisling, Mr. Gottschalk’s housekeeper. And you?”

“Archy McNally, representing McNally and Son, attorneys-at-law. I’m the Son.”

“Of course,” she said, offering a hand. “So nice of you to come.”

“So nice of you to invite me.” Her handclasp was dry and surprisingly strong. “You have a lovely home, and it appears to be a joyous party.”

She laughed. “Well, thank you. The occasion is to welcome the girls home from Europe. As for our home, I’m afraid it may seem somewhat, ah...”

“Disheveled?” I suggested.

She laughed again, a throaty sound. “Exactly. You do have a way with words, Mr. McNally.”

“Archy,” I said. “And may I call you Yvonne?”

“Of course. Everyone does.”

“Now that we have a first-name relationship, may I ask a personal question?”

Her face didn’t freeze but I did detect a sudden wariness. “Ask away,” she said.

“I know the manager of Parrots Unlimited is Ricardo Chrisling. Your son?”

“Stepson,” she said rather stiffly. “By my husband who is now deceased. Do enjoy yourself, Archy, and don’t forget the buffet. We don’t want you going home hungry.”

She gave me a nothing smile and moved away. She was wearing a very chaste long black skirt and severely tailored jacket. Her costume reminded me of a uniform: something a keeper in an institution might wear. “
Und
you
vill
obey orders!” Silly, I admit, but that was my impression.

Wandering about, glass in hand, I found Binky Watrous and Bridget Houlihan seated close together on a tattered velvet love seat. They were gazing into each other’s eyes with a look so moony I wanted to kick both of them in the shins.

“Hi, kids,” I said, and they looked up, startled.

“Oh,” Binky said finally. “Hello, Archy. Have you met Bridget?”

“I have indeed,” I said. “Good evening, Bridget.”

“The same,” she said dreamily, not releasing Binky’s paw. “Honey, do the call of the cuckoo again.”

I hastily departed.

I found the host putting another LP on his player and was happy he had not switched to CDs, which are too electronically perfect for me. I cherish those scratches and squawks of old vinyls. Mr. Gottschalk was about to place the needle on an original cast recording of
Guys and Dolls
.

“Excellent choice, sir,” I said.

He looked up. “Hello, Archy. Glad you could make it. Enjoying yourself?”

“Immeasurably.”

“Like old recordings, do you?”

“Very much.”

He paused to stare dimly into the distance. “I do too. And so did my dear wife. On our tenth anniversary she gave me an ancient shellac of Caruso singing ‘
Vesti la giubbla
.’”

“What a treasure!” I said. “Do you still have it?”

He gave me a queer look. “I don’t know what happened to it. I’ll try to find it.”

The record started and I listened happily to “Fugue for Tinhorns.” Hi lowered the volume and turned to me. “Have you met my daughters?”

“Not yet. How shall I tell them apart?”

“Very difficult. But one of them has a mole, a small, black mole.”

“Oh?” I said. “Which one—Judith or Julia?”

He grinned mischievously. “I’m not allowed to tell.”

“Well, where is this small, black mole located?”

His grin broadened and he tugged at his Vandyke. “You’re an investigator, aren’t you?” he said. “Investigate and find out.”

What an aging satyr he was!

The buffet was really nothing extraordinary: a spiral-cut ham, cocktail franks in pastry cozies, chilled shrimp, crudités, cheese of no particular distinction, onion rolls a bit on the spongy side, and, for dessert, petits fours I suspected had been stamped out in a robotized Taiwan factory.

There was, however, one dish I sampled and found blindly delicious. Cold cubes of
something
in a yummy sauce. At first I thought it might be filet mignon, but it lacked the meat’s texture. I ate more, entranced by the flavor and subtle aftertaste. Finally, determined to identify this wonder, I found my way into the Gottschalks’ kitchen.

There I met a plumpish couple identified in Hiram’s list of his staff as Mr. Got Lee, chef, and his wife, Mei, who apparently functioned as a maid of all work. They were wearing matching skullcaps of linen decorated with beads and sequins, and I’ve never encountered more scrutable Orientals in my life. Both giggled continually; they either enjoyed high spirits or had been hitting a gallon jug of rice wine.

I introduced myself and we all shook hands enthusiastically.

“Ver’ happy,” Got said in a lilting voice.

“Ver’ ver’ happy,” Mei said, topping him.

“My pleasure,” I assured them. “You have prepared a marvelous party.”

They both bowed and I was treated to another chorus of “ver’ happy’s” interspersed with giggles.

“Tell me,” I said, “what is that excellent cold dish in a spicy sauce? It tastes somewhat like broiled steak but I’m sure it’s not. What on earth is it?”

More giggles and a lengthy explanation in English so strangled I could scarcely follow it. The treat turned out to be thick chunks of portobello mushrooms grilled with seasoning, cooled, and then marinated in lots of swell stuff for an hour and served chilled.

“Well, it’s wonderful,” I told them, and they beamed. “You enjoy working here, do you?”

The beams faded and they looked at each other.

“Ver’ happy,” Got said.

“Ver’ ver’ happy,” Mei said.

But the lilt was gone from their voices. The giggles had vanished. They were not, I decided, quite as scrutable as I had first thought.

I was heading for the bar to refill my empty glass, since the contents had unaccountably evaporated. Ahead of me was a trig young man pouring himself a pony of Frangelico.

“Wise choice,” I remarked.

He turned to look at me. “I think so,” he said, with emphasis on the “I.”

“Archy McNally,” I said, proffering a hand. “I represent McNally and Son, Mr. Gottschalk’s attorneys.”

“Oh?” he said, and gave me a brief, rather limp handshake. “I’m Ricardo Chrisling. I manage Parrots Unlimited.”

I had already guessed since he was everything Binky Watrous had described: handsome, sleek, possibly “gigoloish.” Binky had been accurate but he had not caught the lad’s finickiness: every shining hair in place, a shave I could never hope to equal, the three points of his jacket pocket handkerchief as precise and sharp as sword points. I wondered if the soles of his shoes were polished and the laces ironed.

I must confess my description of Ricardo Chrisling might be tainted by envy. He was, after all, about ten years younger than I and closely resembled Rodolfo Alfonzo Rafaelo Pierre Filibert Guglielmi di Valentina d’Antonguolla, a/k/a Rudolph Valentino. I mean he was a
beautiful
man, features crisp and evocative. He really should have been out in Hollywood filming
The Return of the Sheik
instead of futzing around with parrots.

“Nice party,” I observed.

“Isn’t it?” he said rather coldly. I didn’t think he was much interested in me. And why should he be? I wasn’t a female. “Meeting everyone?” he said casually.

“Gradually,” I said. “I haven’t yet come upon the guests of honor.”

“The twins?” he said. “You will. They’re not shy.”

I didn’t know how to interpret that. “How does one tell them apart?” I asked.

“One doesn’t,” he said, gave me a bloodless smile, and moved away.

He left me with the feeling he considered me a harmless duffer of no importance. That suited me. I didn’t want anyone in that household to suspect I was a keen-eyed beagle tracking a miscreant threatening the life of the lord of the manor.

There were other guests in addition to Mr. Gottschalk’s immediate entourage. There must have been twenty or thirty—friends, neighbors, business acquaintances—and I found them an odd but pleasant lot, all eating and drinking up a storm.

I met Yvonne Chrisling’s masseuse, the Got Lees’ greengrocer, a morose Peruvian who was apparently a parrot wholesaler, and one shy chap, barely articulate, who appeared awed by his surroundings. He finally admitted he mowed Mr. Gottschalk’s lawn and this was the first time he had been inside the house. We had a drink together and got along famously because this seemingly inarticulate fellow could sing “Super-cali-fragil-istic-expi-ali-docious.” I can’t even pronounce it.

I also introduced myself to the young clerks from Parrots Unlimited—Emma Gompertz and Tony Sutcliffe—the twosome Binky Watrous reported had a “thing” going and might possibly be cohabiting. They appeared to be an innocuous couple, agreeable and polite, but really not much aware of anyone but each other. Their behavior—hand holding and dreamy stares—was remarkably akin to Binky’s conduct with Bridget Houlihan.

Romance was rife that night, positively
rife
.

I finally spotted the twins, Judith and Julia Gottschalk. I then experienced a moment of panic, fearing I was suffering an attack of double vision.

Nothing of the sort of course. They were simply twins but so alike one could only marvel at their oneness. They were, I guessed, in their early thirties. Both had deep brown eyes and brown hair with russet glints, cut quite short. They were dressed differently, one in a silk pantsuit, the other in short leather skirt and fringed buckskin jacket. I suspected they shared a common wardrobe; their physical proportions seemed identical.

They were chatting animatedly with each other and I wondered if twins ever became weary of their mirror images. They certainly didn’t seem bored at the moment, for they laughed frequently, occasionally leaned close to whisper, and once shook hands as if sealing a private pact. I thought them enormously attractive young ladies and hastened to join them.

“Welcome home!” I said heartily, giving them my Jumbocharmer smile for I felt they were mature enough to withstand it.

“Thank you,” they said in unison, and Pantsuit asked, “And who might you be?”

“I might be Ivan the Terrible,” I said, “but I am not. My name is Archy McNally, and I work for your father’s attorneys.”

“You’re a lawyer?”

“Not quite. More of a para-paralegal. And you are...?”

“Judith,” she said. “I think.” She turned to her twin. “Am I Judith, darling?”

“I thought you were this morning,” Leather Skirt said. “But now I’m not so sure. You may be Julia.”

“Which would make you Judith.”

“I suppose. But I can’t be certain. I don’t
feel
like Judith.”

Both looked at me with wide-eyed innocence. I realized this was a routine that amused them greatly and they used frequently to befuddle new acquaintances. They obviously had inherited their father’s quirky sense of humor.

“I think I have a solution to this difficult problem,” I said. “Suppose I address each of you as Mike. Won’t that make things a lot simpler?”

Both clapped their hands delightedly and gave me elfin grins.

“Well done,” Pantsuit said.

“Good show,” Leather Skirt said. “I love the idea of us both being Mike.”

Their voices were identical in pitch and timbre.

Pantsuit stared at me reflectively. “Archy McNally,” she repeated. “We’ve heard that name before. Are you a member of the Pelican Club?”

“I am indeed.”

“Peter has mentioned you. We’ve never been there, have we, Mike?”

“Never, Mike,” her sibling said. “Take us there to lunch, Archy.”

“I’ll be delighted. When?”

“Tomorrow. Is twelve-thirty okay?”

“Twelve-thirty is perfect.”

“How should we dress?” Leather Skirt asked.

“Informally. Laid-back. Funky. Whatever.”

“That’s cool,” Pantsuit said.

“You know how to find it?”

“We’ll ask Peter. Thank you for the invite, Archy.”

Mike #1 leaned forward suddenly to kiss me briefly on the lips. Her buss was sweet and tangy as a Vidalia onion. Ah-ha! Now, I reckoned, I’d be able to tell them apart. But then Mike #2 duplicated her sister’s action. Her kiss was sweet and tangy as a Vidalia onion.

Archibald McNally, the master criminologist, flummoxed again.

G
UESTS BEGAN LEAVING AN HOUR
before midnight. I looked about for Binky Watrous and his Celtic knish but they had already departed. I decided it was time to make my adieus and sought the host to thank him for a pleasant evening. But Hiram was nowhere to be found and so I delivered my farewell to Yvonne Chrisling.

She was in a more relaxed mood than at our initial meeting. At least her handclasp was warm and she seemed reluctant to release me.

“Thank you so much,” I said. “It was a lovely party.”

“It was sweet of you to come,” she said. “I’m glad you had a good time and I hope you’ll visit again. Did you meet the twins?”

“I surely did.”

“And what did you think of them, Archy?”

“Very personable,” I said carefully.

She gave me a cryptic smile. “They’re not as scatterbrained as many people think. Quite the contrary.”

Then she turned away to exchange good-byes with other guests, giving me no opportunity to ask what she meant by her last oblique comment.

I exited into a sultry night, the air close and redolent of all that gross vegetation. I found my Miata and there, lolling in the passenger’s bucket, feet up on the dash, was Peter Gottschalk. He was smoking something acrid and I hoped it might be tobacco.

“Good evening,” I said as calmly as I could. I do not appreciate my pride and joy being occupied without my permission, especially by irrational acquaintances.

He patted the door. “Nice heap,” he said.

“It is,” I agreed. “And now I intend to drive it home. By myself. Alone.”

It didn’t register. I wasn’t certain he heard what I said.