Lawrence Sanders - McNally's risk

"No, it does not. But it puzzles me."

"You feel I should leap at the chance of marrying Chauncey?"

"You could do much worse. Me, for instance."

"Let me be the judge of that," she said.

"May I ask how old you are, Theo?"

"You may ask but I shan't answer. Older than you think, I'm sure."

"Another personal question you may or may not wish to answer: Is your mother living?"

"Yes. My parents are divorced. My mother has remarried and is presently living in San Diego. And now I have a personal question for you: Do you have a ladyfriend?"

"I do."

"But you're not faithful to her?"

"Is that a question or a statement?"

She laughed. "A statement. I do believe you're as selfish as I am."

"Quite possibly," I acknowledged. "Theo, would you care for dessert?"

"Yes," she said decisively, staring at me. "You."

I sought to quell a slight tremor.

She discussed the logistics of our assignation as calmly as if she were making an appointment for a pedicure. Daddy had driven down to Fort Lauderdale that morning. It was a business trip and daddy would be gone all day. And daddy had promised to phone before he started back to Palm Beach so they could make dinner plans.

In addition, both condos adjoining the Johnsons' were unoccupied, the owners having gone north for the summer.

"So you see," Theo concluded, "we'll have all the privacy we could possibly want."

"Yes," I said, tempted to add, "But God will be watching." I didn't, of course, since it verged on blasphemy.

We didn't converse on our return trip to Palm Beach although there were a few occasions when I suspected she was humming. I was simply amazed at her insouciance. She sat upright, smiling straight ahead, shining hair whipping back in the breeze. She looked as if she owned the world, or at least that part of it she coveted.

We arrived at the Johnsons' condo, and I suggested that since the blood-red Miata was such a noticeable vehicle, it might be more discreet if I parked some distance away. But Theo would have none of that, insisted I park at her doorstep, and led the way inside. And instead of inviting me into a bedroom, she rushed to that hideous cretonne-covered couch in the living room and beckoned. I scurried to her side.

She undressed with frantic and unseemly haste, and all I could think of was a cannibal preparing for a feast of a succulent missionary.

I shall not attempt to describe the rapture of that afternoon. It is not that I lack the vocabulary-you know me better than that-but it is because some events in one's life are so private that it is painful to disclose them, even if they are pleasurable.

I can only permit myself to record that Theodosia Johnson was all women. Not all woman but all women. She reduced the plural to the singular, multiplicity to one. After knowing her, there seemed no need for another. She was the Eternal Female, capitalized, and at the moment I was bewitched. Not bothered and bewildered-just bewitched.

There was one intimate detail I am forced to reveal because it has a bearing on what was to follow. Theo had a small tattoo of a blue butterfly on the left of her tanned abdomen, almost in the crease of her thigh. It was, to the best of my recollection, the first time I had ever kissed a butterfly.

I returned home too late for my ocean swim-a mercy since I hadn't the strength-but in time to shower and dress for the family cocktail hour and dinner. My thoughts, needless to say, were awhirl, but I believe I hid my perturbation from my parents. The only discomposing moment came during our preprandial martinis when I eagerly asked my mother, "What did you think of Theo Johnson?"

The mater gave me her sweet smile. "She's not for you, Archy," she said.

It was cataclysm time. "Why on earth not?" I demanded.

Her shrug was tiny. "Just a feeling," she said.

I was subdued at dinner and retired to my quarters as soon as decently possible. I wanted to note the day's adventures in my journal but was unable. I merely sat rigidly, counting the walls (there were four), and tried to solve the riddle of Madam X.

I was still in this semi-catatonic state when Connie Garcia phoned. Her first words-"Hi, honey!"-were an enormous relief since they signified she had not yet learned of my hegira to Mizner Park with Theo Johnson.

"Listen," she went on, "seems to me you gabbled about a dinner date this week. When? Put up or shut up."

"Let me consult my social calendar," I said. "My presence has been requested at so many-"

"Cut the bs," she interrupted. "It's on for tomorrow night at the Pelican Club. I called and Leroy is planning to roast a whole suckling pig. How does that sound?"

"Gruesome," I said. "I am a suckling pig."

"As well I know," Connie said. "Around eight o'clock- okay?"

"Fine," I said. "I'll even change my socks."

I realized, after hanging up, that perhaps an evening with the open, forthright, and completely honest Ms. Garcia was exactly what I needed. After an afternoon spent with the disquieting and inexplicable Ms. Johnson, it would be like popping a tranquilizer. Of course after dinner Connie would expect me to expend some energy in her Lake Worth condo, but that prospect didn't daunt me. I hustled to the medicine cabinet in my bathroom and slid two B-12 sublingual tablets under my tongue.

Wasn't it John Barrymore who said, "So many women, so little time"? If he didn't say it, he should have.

Chauncey Wilson Smythe-Hersforth returned from New Orleans on Thursday morning, and at eleven o'clock he and his mother had a conference with my father. I was not invited to attend. But after it ended the Chinless Wonder came down to my office wearing a grin so smarmy I wanted to kick his shins.

"This is your office?" he said, glancing around. "My walk-in closet at home is bigger than this."

"Most of my work is done on the outside," I said frostily. "Like going down to Fort Lauderdale to interview Shirley Feebling on your behalf."

He immediately composed his features into a theatrical expression of sorrow. "That was a terrible thing," he said, shaking his fat head. "Just terrible. She was a nice girl, Archy. I really liked her."

I made no response.

"What's the world coming to?" he demanded rhetorically. "Violence everywhere. Silas Hawkin murdered and now this. A decent citizen isn't safe on the street anymore."

I had enough of his profundities. "What's happening with your letters?" I asked.

The smarmy grin returned. "Your father is going to pull every string he can to get them back from the Lauderdale police. They're of no use to them, are they? I mean I have a perfect alibi; a hundred people saw me at the convention. Listen, Archy, how much money did Shirley want?"

"She didn't want any. She just wanted to marry you."

"She should have known that was impossible," he blustered, running a finger between collar and neck. "The difference in our class and all that…"

"Uh-huh," I said. "And what was your mother's reaction to your proposing marriage to Shirley?"

That deflated him. "Well, uh, in your father's office she just said, 'Boys will be boys.' But when I get home tonight I expect she'll have more to say on the subject."

"Yes, I expect she will," I said with some satisfaction. "Tell me, CW, did Shirl ever say anything about someone threatening her or following her or annoying her?"

"No, she never mentioned anything like that. I think it was a druggie who broke in to rob her. She caught him at it and he killed her."

"Could be," I said, waiting for him to say, "She was just in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"She was just in the wrong place at the wrong time," he said, keeping his reputation for fatuousness intact. "Well, it was an awful thing, but in all honesty it's a load off my mind to have that business about the letters cleared up."