Lawrence Sanders - McNally's risk

"My stepmother is a bitch," she declared. "You know what that means, don't you?"

"I've heard the word," I acknowledged.

"What am I going to do?" she cried despairingly. "What am I going to do?"

Never let it be said that A. McNally failed to respond to a damsel in distress. But when the damsel in question appears to be a certifiable loony-well, it does give one pause, does it not?

"What seems to be the problem, Miss Hawkin?" I asked, speaking as slowly and softly as possible.

My soothing manner had the desired effect. She suddenly began talking rationally and with some good sense.

"Money," she said. "Isn't that always the problem?"

"Not always," I said, "but frequently. Surely your father left you well-provided for."

"I have a trust fund," she admitted, "but I can't touch it until I turn twenty-one."

That was a shocker. I had guessed her to be in the mid-twenties. "How old are you, Miss Hawkin?" I asked gently.

"Nineteen," she said. "I look older, don't I?"

"Not at all," I said gallantly.

"I know I do," she said defiantly. "But you don't know what my life has been like. When daddy was alive, money made no difference. He was very generous. Anything I wanted. But now I'm totally dependent on her. My food, the house, spending money- everything. It just kills me."

"Surely you have relatives or friends who'd be willing to help out."

She shook her head. "No one. I'm on my own, and I'm frightened, I admit it."

"Don't be frightened," I counseled her, "because then you won't be able to think clearly. You must keep your nerve and review your options calmly and logically as if you were called upon to advise someone else."

She looked at me queerly. "Yes," she said, "you're right. If I have the courage to act I can solve my own problems, can't I?"

"Of course. Courage and energy: That's what it takes."

She laughed. I didn't like that laugh. It came perilously close to being a hysterical giggle.

"Thank you, Archy," she said. "I may call you Archy, mayn't I?"

"I'd be delighted."

"And you must call me Squirrel," she said. "That's what daddy always called me."

"What an unusual nickname," I said, smiling.

"You think so?" she challenged, and abruptly she was back in her manic mood again. "I see nothing unusual about it. You just don't understand. No one can ever understand. I think you better go now."

My first impression had been correct: definitely an Ophelia.

I finished my drink hastily, bid her a polite farewell, and left her still sprawled, starting on another fingernail. I was thankful to be going. Those moments with her were too intense, too charged with things unsaid, furies suppressed and threatening to break loose.

I drove away without a backward glance. The master of that home might be deceased but it was still the Villa Bile.

When I arrived at the McNally digs, a much happier household, I found Jamie Olson in the garage hosing down my mother's antique wood-bodied Ford station wagon. He was smoking one of his ancient briars, the one with the cracked shank wrapped with a Band-Aid.

"Jamie," I said, "Mrs. Jane Folsby was the live-in at Silas Hawkin's residence, but she has suddenly left their employ. Do you think you can find out where she's gone?"

"Mebbe," he said.

"Try," I urged. "She's a nice lady, and I'd like to talk to her."

I had a pleasant ocean swim, the family cocktail hour that followed was just as enjoyable, and dinner that night capped my pleasure. Mother went upstairs for an evening of television in the sitting room, father retired to his study to continue his wrestle with Dickens, and I climbed to my suite to update my journal, sip a small marc, and listen to a tape of Hoagy Carmichael singing "Star Dust."

It was a normal evening at the McNally manse, all quiet, peaceful, content. But just when you start believing the drawbridge is up, the castle is inviolate, and the rude world can't possibly intrude, along comes leering fate to deliver a swift kick to your gluteus maximus.

On that particular evening the boot came at approximately 9:30 p.m. in the form of a phone call from Sgt. Al Rogoff. He spent no time on greetings.

"I'm beginning to wonder about you," he said.

"Are you?" I said, thinking he was joshing. "Wonder about what?"

"Do you know a guy named Chauncey Smythe-Hersforth? Lives in Palm Beach."

"Of course I know him," I said. "He and his mother are clients of McNally and Son."

"Uh-huh. And do you know a woman named Shirley Feebling? In Fort Lauderdale."

"I don't know her," I said warily, beginning to get antsy about this conversation. "I met her once for an hour. Why the third degree, Al?"

"Son," he said, "you're just too free with your business cards. About an hour ago I got a call from a dick I know who works out of Lauderdale Homicide. This afternoon they found Shirley Feebling in her condo shot through the back of her head. Much dead. They also found your business card and a batch of hot letters from this Smythe-Hersforth character."

I closed my eyes. Her T-shirt had been lettered PEACE. What a way to find it.

"Your father still awake?" Rogoff asked.

"Of course he's still awake. It's only nine-thirty."

"I think I better come over," he said. "Okay?"

"Don't tell me I'm a suspect," I said with a shaky laugh.

"Right now you and Smythe-Hersforth are the only leads that Lauderdale's got. I promised to check you out, both of you. Makes sense, doesn't it?"

"I guess," I said, sighing. "The second time my business card has landed me in the soup. You're correct, Al; I've got to stop handing them out. Sure, come on over."

"Be there in fifteen minutes," he said and hung up.

I sat there a few moments remembering that ingenuous and not too bright young woman with her firm belief in True Love and a sunny future. It didn't take long for sadness and regret to become anger and a seething desire for vengeance. The murder of Shirley Feebling affected me more keenly than the killing of Silas Hawkin. I could conceive that his actions might have led to his demise. But hers, I was convinced, was the death of an innocent.

I prepared to go downstairs and alert father to the arrival of Sgt. Rogoff. I glanced nervously at the darkness outside my window. Our snug home no longer seemed secure.

Al had the look of an exhausted beagle. He sat in front of my father's magisterial desk and in a toneless voice recited what little he knew of the murder of Shirley Feebling.

She did not show up for work at the topless car wash on Tuesday morning. The boss was not concerned; his employees were usually late and frequently absent for a day or two simply because they had better things to do than lave insect-spattered vehicles driven by the curious and/or lubricious.

But when there was no word from Shirl by noon, and her phone wasn't answered, a friend and co-worker with the unlikely name of Pinky Schatz became alarmed and stopped by her place after work. The door of Ms. Feebling's condo was unlocked, and inside Pinky discovered the sanguinary corpse. After a single scream, she dialed 911.

The homicide detective to whom Rogoff had spoken had revealed only that my business card and the letters of Chauncey Wilson Smythe-Hersforth had been found during the initial search. If any additional significant evidence was discovered, he just wasn't saying.

"And that's all I've got," the sergeant concluded. He turned to me. "What have you got?"

I glanced at mon pere. He was the attorney; it was his responsibility to decide how much to reveal and how much to keep undisclosed in the name of client confidentiality. Al and I waited patiently while Prescott McNally went through his mulling routine, a process that endured long enough to calculate the square root of 2. Finally the guru spake.