Lawrence Sanders - McNally's risk

"Prenuptial agreement."

"Yes. Well, uh, if I tell mom about it, she might change her mind about Theo. You understand? In fact, she might become so furious that she'd rewrite her will. And then where would I be?"

"You're her only child, are you not? And the closest family member. I doubt very much if she could disinherit you completely."

"Maybe not," he said worriedly, "but she could cut me down to the bare minimum, couldn't she? And then would I have enough to promise Theo the five million she wants?"

"Ah," I said, "you do have a problem. I presume your mother has been introduced to your fiancee."

"Yes, they've met. Once."

"And how did they get along?"

"Well, uh, they didn't exactly become instant pals."

I nodded, recalling my mother's reaction to Madam X.

Maybe the matrons saw something neither Chauncey nor I recognized. Or perhaps it was merely maternal possessiveness. ("No one's good enough for my boy!")

"What is it you'd like me to do, CW?"

He stroked his bushy mustache with a knuckle. "I don't know," he admitted. "But everyone says you're so clever. I thought maybe you could give me a tip on how to handle this situation in a clever way."

"I'd like to help you," I told him. "But I can't come up with an instant solution this moment. Let me think about it awhile."

"Well, all right," he said grudgingly. "But not too long, Archy. I mean I don't want Theo to think I'm stalling her. You know?"

"Of course," I said, rising. "It's obvious you're very intent on marrying this woman."

"Oh God, yes!" he said with more fervor than I had believed him capable of. "I must have her!"

"Quite understandable," I said. "But meanwhile, CW, do not sign any paper, agreement, or contract. Is that clear?"

"If you say so."

"I do say so. Sign nothing!"

We shook hands and exchanged wan smiles. He unlocked his door, and I departed. I ambled back to the McNally Building suffused with a warm feeling of schadenfreude. But that, I admitted, was unkind and unworthy of the McNally Code of Honor, the main principle of which is never to kick a man when he's down. Unless, of course, he deserves it.

When I returned to my own office, which, after an hour spent in Chauncey's cathedral, had all the ambience of a paint locker, the first thing I did was phone Mrs. Jane Folsby again. This time she came on the line.

"Oh, Mr. McNally," she said, "I'm so glad you called. I know you've heard about Marcia Hawkin."

"I have," I said. "Sorrowful."

"Terrible," she said with some vehemence. "Just terrible. She had her faults as we all do, but she didn't deserve to die like that. It wasn't suicide, was it?"

"I really don't know the details," I said cautiously.

"I know it wasn't," she said decisively. "And I have my suspicions. That's what I want to talk to you about."

"Mrs. Folsby, if you know anything relating to Marcia's death, don't you think you should speak to the police? Sergeant Al Rogoff is handling the case. You've met him."

"No," she said determinedly. "This is something I don't want to tell the police. Because then they'll want a sworn statement and I'll get all involved and might even be forced to testify in court. And I really don't have any proof. But I know what I know, and I've got to tell someone. Please, Mr. McNally. I'll feel a lot better if I tell you, and then you can do whatever you think best. At least my conscience will be clear."

"This sounds serious," I said.

"It is serious. Will you meet with me?"

"Of course. Would you care to have lunch someplace or come to my office?"

"Oh no," she said immediately, "that won't do at all. Could you possibly come over here to my sister's home in West Palm Beach?"

"Be glad to," I told her, and she gave me the address. We agreed to meet at eleven o'clock on Friday morning.

"Thank you so much," she said, and the chirp came back into her voice. "You don't know what a relief it will be to tell someone. I haven't been able to sleep a wink since Marcia died."

And she hung up. Al Rogoff accuses me of overusing the word "intriguing." But at that moment I couldn't think of a better one.

I had absolutely no idea of what Mrs. Jane Folsby wished to reveal to me, so I discarded that topic instanter. I would learn on the morrow.

As for CW's admission that his marriage depended upon his signing a five-million-dollar agreement with his bride-to-be, I could only conclude that Mrs. Gertrude Smythe-Hersforth might not be as witless as I had assumed. And further, the senior McNally had been his usual omniscient self when he had described marriage as a contractual obligation.

What was perhaps most astonishing to me was my own ingenuousness. When I first met Theodosia Johnson I was convinced her nature had to be as pure as her beauty. Then, after I had been privileged to view that blue butterfly, I became aware of her fiercely independent willfulness. And now third thoughts had superseded the second; she was apparently a young lady with a shrewd instinct for the bottom line.

But then my musing veered from the relations of Madam X with the Chinless Wonder to her relations with yrs. truly. It occurred to me that Theo had been aware from the start that I had been assigned to investigate her bona fides. During that demented deli luncheon, her father had denied she knew of my role. But Hector, I now reckoned, was as consummate a liar as I.

And if Theo was cognizant of what I was about, perhaps the granting of her favors (with the promise of more to come) was her astute method of insuring my willing cooperation in her endeavor to snare the heir to the Smythe-Hersforth fortune. It's possible that was her motive, was it not? Naturally I preferred to believe she had succumbed to the McNally charm. But I could not delude myself by completely rejecting the notion that she had been the seductress and I the object of her Machiavellian plotting.

I simply did not know. And so I left immediately for the Pelican Club bar, seeking inspiration.

My parents were not present that evening, having been invited to dinner at the home of octogenarian friends celebrating the birth of their first great-grandchild. And so I dined in the kitchen with the Olsons, and a jolly time was had by all. Ursi served a mountainous platter of one of her specialties: miniature pizzas (two bites per) with a variety of toppings. Romaine salad with vinaigrette dressing. Raspberry sorbet on fresh peaches for dessert. (Please don't drool on this page.)

That delightful dinner numbed me, but I was able to work on my journal in lackadaisical fashion until it became time to depart for my meeting with Sgt. Rogoff. Obeying my mother's dictum-"Never visit without bringing a gift."-I stopped en route to pick up a cold six-pack of Corona. It is one of Al's favorites, but I must admit that when it comes to beers he has no animosities that I'm aware of.

Rogoff's "wagon" is a double mobile home set on a concrete foundation and furnished in a fashion that would make any bachelor sigh with content. Comfort is the theme, and everything is worn and shabby enough so you feel no restraint against kicking off your shoes.

The barefoot host was wearing jeans and a snug T-shirt, and when he uncapped the beer I had brought he put out a large can of honey-roasted peanuts. I said, "Al, I speak more as friend than critic, but your waistline is obviously expanding exponentially. To put it crudely, pal, you're cultivating a king-sized gut."

"So what?" he said. "I've noticed you're no longer the thin-as-a-rail bucko you once were."

"Touche," I said, "and I hope it will be the last of the evening. I've been meaning to ask, did you ever get to see that portrait of Theodosia Johnson by Silas Hawkin in the Pristine Gallery?"