Lawrence Sanders - McNally's risk

Her sister's home was located in a neighborhood I can only term bucolic and was more bungalow than South Florida split-level ranch. Rose bushes were plentiful and the front yard boasted two orchid trees that would have elicited gasps of awe from my mother. The house itself was freshly painted and had a semicircular stained-glass window over the front door. Very nice.

Mrs. Folsby answered my knock and seemed pleased to see me. She led the way to a small, brightly furnished living room in the rear with windows mercifully facing north. Everything was flowered chintz but not overpowering, and the white wicker armchair I sat in was comfortable enough.

She insisted on serving minted iced tea. I told her how delicious it was-which wasn't quite the truth. Then we agreed that South Florida was, indeed, hot in midsummer. We also concurred that crime rates were too high and youngsters today had little respect for their elders.

Then there was a pause in this brilliant conversation. "About Marcia Hawkin…" I prompted.

"Yes," she said, looking down and moving a gold wedding band around and around on her finger. "I don't know how to say this, Mr. McNally."

"Take your time," I said encouragingly. "I am not a policeman, you know, although Sergeant Al Rogoff is a close friend. But if you wish this conversation to remain confidential, I shall certainly respect your wishes."

"That's for you to decide," she said. "The only reason I'm telling you is that a crime has been committed, and someone should be punished."

I have previously described her as "old, large, creaky," and with a chirpy voice. But now I saw something in her I had not recognized before: strong will and stiff determination. Not a woman to be trifled with, and I wondered how she had endured the disorder of the Hawkin menage. Economic reasons, I supposed; she needed the money.

"I hadn't been with the Hawkins long," she started, "before I realized something was going on."

Again there was a short lull. I didn't want to spur her with questions, feeling it best to let her tell the story at her own pace.

"Mrs. Louise Hawkin and Marcia…" she finally continued. "Always at each other. I thought it was because Louise was a stepmother. Sometimes daughters resent it. And her drinking so much," she added. "The missus, that is."

I nodded.

"But it was more than that," she went on. "I don't know how to tell this and I wouldn't blame you if you didn't believe me, but I've got to say it."

I waited.

She looked away from me. "Silas Hawkin," she said, and her voice was dry, "the mister, he was bedding his daughter. I know that for a fact."

I took a gulp of my iced tea. "You're certain of this, Mrs. Folsby?"

"I am," she said firmly. "There is no doubt in my mind. I don't know how long it had been going on. Years, I'd guess. Before Silas married Louise. She was his third wife."

"So I read in his obituary."

"And Marcia was his daughter by the first. Yes, I think it had been going on for a long time."

I drew a deep breath. "Marcia was very disturbed," I commented.

"She had every right to be," Mrs. Folsby said angrily. "What her life must have been like! So naturally Louise was her enemy."

"Naturally," I said.

"I can't tell you how poisonous they were to each other. They had a fight once. And I mean a fight with slapping and kicking. The mister broke it up."

"Dreadful," I said.

"They hated each other," she said sadly. "Jealous, you see. Louise knew what was going on. Marcia was her rival. And Marcia saw Louise as her rival. All because of that awful man. He came on to me once. Can you believe it?"

"Yes," I said, "I can believe it."

"So that's why I think she did it."

It took me a moment to sort that out. "Mrs. Folsby," I said, "are you suggesting that Louise may have murdered her stepdaughter?"

"It does not behoove me to accuse her," she said primly. "But I think the matter should be looked into."

"It shall be," I assured her. "May I have your permission to relay what you've told me to the authorities?"

"Will you give them my name?"

"Not if you don't wish it."

"I do not," she said sharply. "But if you want to tell them the other things-well, that's up to you. I've done all I can do."

"I understand completely," I said, "and I thank you for your honesty. And for your hospitality."

I finished that wretched iced tea and rose to leave. She accompanied me to the front door. Just before I departed I said, "Mrs. Folsby, do you think Marcia Hawkin killed her father?"

"No," she said, shaking her head, "she loved him too much."

I drove back to the Island in a broody mood. I figured that conversation with Mrs. Folsby had yielded one Yes, one No, and one Maybe.

The Yes was the information that Silas Hawkin was having an incestuous relationship with Marcia. After what Lolly Spindrift had told me of the man's sexual proclivities, I could believe it. And probably, as Mrs. Folsby had guessed, for many years.

The No was her accusation-or suggestion-that Louise Hawkin had killed her stepdaughter. That I could not believe. Marcia had been strangled, and that is very, very rarely the modus operandi of a murderess. Also, I did not think Louise had the strength-to be crude, it takes muscle to wring a human neck-and what could possibly be her motive since Silas, the reason for the two women's enmity, had been eliminated.

The Maybe was Mrs. Folsby's stout declaration that Marcia didn't murder her father because she loved him too much. Perhaps. But that unhinged child had also described daddy to me as the "horribilest" person in the world. Theirs could have been a love-hate affair in which the second verb finally triumphed over the first.

It was then a bit past noon and I lunched alone at Bice, ordering a hearts-of-palm salad and a single glass of sauvignon blanc. Feeling justifiably virtuous at having put a choke collar on my appetite, I returned to the McNally Building and phoned Mrs. Trelawney. I asked if the seigneur might be available for a short conference. She was absent a moment and then returned to tell me I had been granted a ten-minute audience before the boss departed for lunch with a client.

I scampered up to the sanctum and found him at his antique rolltop desk filling a briefcase with blue-bound documents.

"Can't it wait, Archy?" he said irascibly.

"Just take a moment, sir," I said. "It's something I think you should be aware of."

I related exactly what Chauncey Smythe-Hersforth had told me of the prenuptial agreement demanded by Theodosia Johnson. The sire halted his packing to listen closely. And when I mentioned the amount requested, five million dollars, one of his tangled eyebrows rose slowly as I knew it would.

"A tidy sum," he remarked wryly when I had finished. "I am not too familiar with the precedents of prenuptial agreements, but I shall certainly research the subject. Why didn't Chauncey consult me on this matter?"

"Father," I said gently, "I think he's afraid of you."

He actually snorted. "Nonsense," he said. "Am I an ogre?"

"No, sir."

"Of course not. And he obviously requires legal counsel. I suspect Chauncey's actual fear is having to inform his mother of what his fiancee has requested."

"I'd say that's close to the mark," I agreed.

He pondered a moment. "That young man does have a problem," he finally declared. "He's of age, of course, and can marry whomever he chooses without his mother's permission. But I can understand his not wishing to endanger his inheritance of the Smythe-Hersforth estate in toto. Any suggestions, Archy?"

"Yes, sir," I said. "Let me stall him as long as I can. A few things have turned up in my investigation that lead me to believe the question of a prenuptial agreement may become moot."