Lawrence Sanders - McNally's risk

"Oh, this and that. Lady Horowitz is running me ragged. Right now we're planning a buffet dinner for fifty. The McNallys are on the A-list. Isn't that nice?"

"Splendiferous," I said, delighted she wasn't going to give me a blow-by-blow account of her date with Wes Trumbaugh. "What are you serving the serfs?"

"Cold seafood. Lobster, shrimp, crabmeat, scallops, oysters, periwinkles, calamari, and lots of other swell stuff."

My appetite returned with a jolt. "I'll starve myself for two days to prepare for that feast," I promised. "Plenty of flinty white wine?"

"Of course."

"Wonderful. When can I see you again, Connie?"

"Soon," she said. "Give me a buzz on Friday, Archy. Okay?"

"Will do," I said happily. "Get a good night's sleep."

"I'm already in bed."

"Under that poster of Bogart? 'Here's looking at you, kid.' "

She giggled and hung up.

I went in for my shower, but my mopes had already been sluiced away. I had a prof at Yale who was something of a misogynist and was fond of paraphrasing Thoreau by remarking, "Most women lead lives of noisy desperation."

Not Connie Garcia. She is a bubbler and always inflates my spirits except, of course, when she is dumping a bowl of linguine on my head as punishment for a real or fancied infidelity. But other than her occasional physical assaults, she really is a 24-karat woman.

Lacking only a blue butterfly tattoo.

That was my last lubricious thought before Morpheus and I embraced. Away we went. I awoke on Thursday morning ready to slay dragons. I donned a somber costume, for I had decided that my first port of call would be the Hawkin home, an obligatory visit of condolence I hoped to make as brief as possible.

It was a 3-H day in South Florida: hot, humid, hazy. I wondered, not for the first time, if I wouldn't have been wiser to opt for roofed transportation rather than a convertible. But surrendering my dashing Miata would destroy my self-image of a damn-the-torpedoes buckler of swashes. I wasn't quite ready to do that. Sometimes egoism demands sacrifices.

When I turned into the Hawkins' driveway I saw, parked at the front door, the white Lincoln Town Car belonging to Hector Johnson. My first reaction was to turn and flee, but then I thought why should I. His presence might even be an assist in my expressing the McNally family's sympathies as quickly as possible, and then leaving him to provide additional solace to the twice-bereaved Louise.

But it was Theodosia Johnson who opened the door. Madam X was wearing a longish dress of aubergine silk, and she seemed preternaturally pale, features composed but drawn. It was the face of a woman who had suffered a sleepless night-completely understandable if the Hawkins and Johnsons had been as intimate as I imagined.

"Archy," she said, clasping my hand and drawing me inside, "it's good of you to come."

"How is Mrs. Hawkin?" I asked.

"Surviving," she said. "But just barely."

She led me into the Florida room. Louise and Hector were seated close together on the couch. He was holding her hand, gazing at her with an expression of sorrowful concern. On the cocktail table before them was a silver coffee service, three cups and saucers, and a bottle of California brandy. Johnson glanced up as I entered, and Mrs. Hawkin gave me a befuddled stare as if not quite certain of my identity.

"Ma'am," I said, beginning to recite my rehearsed speech, "I'd like to extend the condolences of myself and my parents. It is a terrible tragedy. If there is any way we can help, please let us know."

"Thank you," she said in the wispiest of voices.

"Hey, Arch, how about a cuppa jamoke?" Hector asked in his brutish way. "With a slug of the old nasty to put lead in your pencil."

"Oh, father," Theo said in a tone of disgust that expressed my own.

"Thank you, no," I said. "I just stopped by for a moment to offer the sympathy of the McNally family. Mrs. Hawkin, is there anything at all we can do to assist you?"

She looked at Johnson. "Nah," he said to me. "It's damned decent of you, but Theo and I are going to take care of our Louise. And she's going to be just fine. Aren't you, hon?"

She nodded and reached for a coffee cup with a trembling hand. But before she could lift it to her lips he slopped in a dollop of brandy.

"Father," Theo said sharply, "that's enough."

"Not yet," he said. "She's got a lot of grief to forget and this is the best medicine."

His daughter sat down abruptly in a rattan armchair, crossed her legs, and immediately one foot began to jerk up and down in vexation. I remained standing, knowing I should depart but enthralled by this unpleasant scene that was threatening to become a high-octane confrontation.

"Louise," Theo said, "wouldn't you like to lie down for a while? Take a pill and get some rest."

"She doesn't need a pill," Hector said. "Those things are poison. Just leave her alone; she'll get through it."

"The woman needs sleep," Theo said angrily. "Can't you see that?"

I was bemused by the way they spoke, as if Mrs. Hawkin was not present. But I don't believe the poor woman was even aware of the contention swirling around her. She sipped her brandy-laced coffee and stared vacantly into space.

"Just mind your own business, kid," Hector said. "I know what I'm doing."

"Since when?" Theo said. "She just lost her husband and stepdaughter. Give her a break."

He looked at her coldly. "Keep it up and you'll get a break," he said.

There was no mistaking the menace in his voice, and I suddenly realized this was more than a family squabble. Their conflict was fascinating, but I had no desire to be a witness to violence. Chivalrous heroism comes rather far down on my list of virtues.

"Theo," I said, "I wonder if I might have a glass of water."

She glared at me, furious that I was interrupting the wrangle. But then she softened, her taut body relaxed; she recognized my effort to end an unseemly shindy in a house of sorrow.

"Sure, Archy," she said, rising. "Come with me."

She led the way without hesitation as if it was her home and there was no need to ask permission from the owner. But once we were in the tiled kitchen her wrath returned.

"That crude son of a bitch," she said, leaning close so I could hear her low voice. "Couth? He never heard the word. He just bulls his way through life, all fists and elbows. He'll get his one of these days. Do you really want a drink of water?"

"Yes, please."

She took it from the tap on the refrigerator door, and I drained the glass gratefully.

She reached to stroke my hair. "You look very handsome this morning, Archy," she said. "Dressed so formally. But I prefer you in something more casual. Or nothing at all."

Her brazenness shocked me and she must have seen it in my face because she laughed delightedly and pressed her body against mine. "Don't worry, darling," she said, "I'm not going to be a problem. I'm going to marry Chauncey and become a nice little hausfrau."

"You may find you enjoy it," I told her.

"Do you really believe that?" she asked.

"No," I said, and she kissed me.

I drew regretfully away. Her flesh felt glossy under that silk, and she was wearing a scent I could not identify, although I suspected cantharides might have been one of the ingredients.

We moved back to the Florida room, and I made a respectful farewell, which Louise Hawkin and Hector Johnson barely acknowledged. Madam X gave me a wave and a devilish smile, and I left the Villa Bile. My original label for that house now seemed more apt than ever.

I exited to find Sgt. Al Rogoff leaning against the fender of his parked pickup. He was wearing civvies-a suit of khaki poplin, white shirt, black knitted tie-and puffing one of his fat cigars.

"I thought you were on a forty-eight," I said to him.