Lawrence Sanders - McNally's risk

He stared at me. "Are you suggesting the young lady may prove to be unsuitable? Persona non grata, so to speak?"

"Possibly," I acknowledged. "But not so much as her father."

He nodded. "In that case I concur with your recommendation. Delay Chauncey's decision as best you can and redouble your efforts to bring this rather distasteful business to a successful conclusion."

"Yes, father," I said, resisting an impulse to tug my forelock.

I left his office and returned home for my ocean swim, then labored on my journal. I showered, dressed, attended the family cocktail hour, and departed for my dinner date with Connie Garcia.

And, you know, during all that time I do not believe there was a single moment when I ceased glooming about Marcia Hawkin, her life and her death. The things we do to each other! Sometimes I think I'd rather be a cocker spaniel or even a hamster rather than a human being. But I did not choose my species and so I must learn to deal with it. And it would be nice if I could become a nobler example of Homo sapiens. But I know better than to hope.

When I arrived at the Pelican Club that evening Connie was already standing at the bar surrounded by a ring of eager young studs.

She was wearing a jumpsuit of burgundy velvet with an industrial zipper from neck to pipik. Her long black hair swung free and oversized golden hoops dangled from her lobes.

But I knew it was mostly her warm vivacity that attracted that pack of hopefuls. Connie is a vibrant young woman with physical energy to spare and a spirit that seems continually effervescing. Add to that a roguish smile and Rabelaisian wit and you have a complete woman who, on a scale of 1 to 10, rates at least a 15.

She saw me standing there like a forlorn bumpkin, excused herself, and came bopping over to grant me a half-hug and an air kiss.

"Hiya, hon," she said cheerily. "I was early so I had a spritzer at the bar."

"And why not?" I said. "You look glorious tonight, Connie."

"You like?" she asked, twirling for my inspection. "The tush isn't too noticeable?"

"Not too," I said. "Never too."

"Let's go eat," she said. "I'm starving."

I wish I could tell you the evening was an unalloyed delight, but I must confess that dinner was something less than a joyful occasion.

It wasn't the food because chef Leroy Pettibone scored with a marvelous special of fried rabbit in a cranberry-orange sauce. And it wasn't Connie's fault because she was her usual bubbling self.

No, the fault was totally mine. I knew it and was utterly incapable of summoning up the McNally esprit. I seemed unable to utter anything but banalities-mercifully brief banalities-and I realized I was behaving like a zombie on barbiturates.

Finally Connie's chatter faded away, and she reached across the table to squeeze my hand. "Archy," she said, "what's wrong with you tonight?"

"Nothing."

"Don't shuck me, sonny boy," she said angrily. "I know you too well. Is it because I've been dating other men, including your close friends?"

"Of course not. Positively not. We agreed that we can see whomever we please."

"Then what is it?"

I never ever talk to anyone but my father and Sgt. Al Rogoff about details of my investigations. I mean I head the Department of Discreet Inquiries at McNally Son, and how discreet can they be if I blab? No, I am a closemouthed lad and fully intend to remain so.

But at that moment I had to tell someone. I think it was because I needed to share the awful burden. I could understand why Mrs. Folsby had to tell me. It was just too much for one person to bear alone.

"Connie," I said, "I know you love to gossip and so do I. I want to tell you something. I need to tell you, but I want your cross-my-heart-and-hope-to-die promise that you won't repeat it to anyone."

"Archy," she said, suddenly solemn, "do you trust me? I mean really trust me?"

"Of course I do."

"Then I swear to you that whatever you tell me will go no farther."

I nodded. "I believe you," I said, and I meant it. "Well, you've heard about Marcia Hawkin's death, haven't you?"

"Of course. Now the police say she was murdered."

"That's correct. But today I heard something else and it's been tearing me apart."

I told her Silas Hawkin had been intimate with his daughter, probably for many years, beginning when she was quite young.

Connie stared at me, her lustrous eyes widening. Suddenly she began weeping. Silently, but the tears flowed.

"Oh God," I said helplessly. "I shouldn't have told you."

She shook her head and held her napkin up to her face. Her shoulders continued to shudder and I knew she was sobbing soundlessly. I could do nothing but wait and curse myself for shattering her.

Finally she calmed, dabbed at her swollen eyes, blinked. Her mouth still quivered and I feared the lacrimation might begin again.

"The poor child," she said in an anguished voice. "The poor, poor child."

"Yes," I said. "Can we move to the bar now and have a brandy? I think we both could use a buckup."

We sat close together at the bar, held hands, and sipped our Remy Martins without speaking. I admit that telling Connie of the Hawkins' incestuous relationship afforded me a small measure of relief. Do you believe that sorrow is lessened by sharing? It must be so because old wisdom declares that misery loves company.

What is amazing is that the pain seems to diminish slightly as it is transferred to another. I had no doubt that eventually, when Marcia's murder was solved, her secret would become known to the public. Then the distress, shared by millions, would dwindle away to become just another of the daily outrages we read about and eventually forget because to remember them all would be too painful to suffer.

After a while we agreed it was time to leave. Connie didn't suggest I accompany her home, nor did I. Before we separated, we stood alongside her car locked in a tight embrace. There was nothing passionate about it. It was the trembling hug of two mourners surviving in a world that sometimes seems too cruel to be endured.

I awoke on Saturday and discovered my morosity had evaporated with the morning sun. What a relief that was! I don't mean to suggest I had totally forgotten Marcia Hawkin-I am not the froth-head my father seems to believe-but now I was able to accept her tragedy without reviling the human race or cursing fate.

The new day helped, of course. The sky was lucent, a sweet sea breeze billowed our curtains, the birds and my mother were twittering and, all in all, it seemed a lucky gift to be animate. I celebrated by eating eight blueberry pancakes-count 'em: eight! -at breakfast.

Then father departed for his customary Saturday morning foursome at his club, mother and Ursi went grocery shopping in our old Ford station wagon, and Jamie Olson disappeared somewhere on the grounds, muttering about the depredations of a rogue opossum he was determined to slay. And so I had the McNally manse to myself.

I went into my father's study and sat in his chair behind his desk. Anyone spotting me there might have thought I was contemplating a regicide so I could inherit the throne. Actually, all I wanted to do was use His Majesty's telephone directory. I phoned Lolly Spindrift's newspaper, knowing he worked Saturdays to meet his deadline for the Sunday edition.

"Lol?" I said. "Archy McNally here."

"Can't talk," he said shortly. "Busy."

"Too bad," I said. "And I have something so choice."

"Never too busy to chat," he said merrily. "What have you got for me, darling?"

"What are you working on?" I temporized. "Marcia Hawkin's death?"

"Of course. It's the murder de jour. All of Palm Beach is nattering about it. And now I'll give you a freebie, only because it will be in my column tomorrow morning. Did you know the unfortunate victim had twice attempted suicide?"