Lawrence Sanders - McNally's chance

“For someone so eager to cohabit ate Binky, you have a lot to learn.”

“I’m not a virgin, Archy.”

Give unto me a break.

The McNally clan meets every evening at seven for cocktails in Father’s den where he mixes our martinis in a perfect silver shaker filled with perfect little ice cubes, pouring the result into perfect baccarat crystal glasses and garnished with perfect green olives. The only thing not perfect is the brew itself, thanks to the seigneur’s heavy hand with the vermouth. In this, as in all things, father is consistent when he measures out the ingredients including, so help me, the exact number of ice cubes.

Topics of conversation at this family gathering are limited to who did what that day. If I’m on a case, I will give Father a progress report.

He, in turn, will nod his approval or vocalize his disapproval after which he will keep us abreast of the antics of his more prestigious clients or drop a few of the names he rubbed shoulders with at last season’s Glitz at the Ritz Ball.

Mother, if she’s had a letter from my sister, Dora, in Arizona, will report on the family there with emphasis on the grandchildren, Rebecca, Rowena, and my godson, little Darcy. Or, after hearing a guest speaker at the C.A.S. (Current Affairs Society) she will tell us, in detail, what the lecturer had to impart. Mother joined the group out of concern for the ozone layer without quite knowing what ozone is.

I recall one guest speaker, a Ms Glynis Ives, self-proclaimed authority on the British royal family,

reporting that when King George VI and his queen, Elizabeth, visited the United States in 1939, they brought with them gallons of British water to be used for brewing their tea and had insisted on hot-water bottles for their beds in Washington, D.C.” in the springtime.

What this has to do with current affairs I do not know, nor would I dream of asking. But I record such information in my journal under the heading “Incidental Intelligence.”

As you can see, we lead a privileged lifestyle due not to my father’s flourishing law practice but to the man who greased the way to father’s success — his sire, Freddy McNally. Freddy was a bulb-nosed, prat falling burlesque comic on the Minsky circuit who worked with such headliners as the exotic dancer Trixie Forganza and Her Little Bag of Tricks. Grandpa Freddy invested not in the stock market but, on his many visits to Florida in the Roaring Twenties, put his money into Gold Coast real estate at a dime an acre. When Wall Street laid that egg, Freddy’s act soared.

While father is not ungrateful for Freddy’s foresight, he is not exactly joyous over Freddy’s chosen profession. The lord of the manor would prefer to have it believed that the McNally dynasty began with him and, based on my expectations, will no doubt end with him.

With two-thirds of the family not at home, our household was a microcosm of Palm Beach in the summer months when the population drops to nine thousand, from a winter high reputed to be close to thirty thousand. Since the pater and mater had gone to sea I had been taking my evening libation at the Pelican where the bar is presided over by Mr. Simon Pettibone, the club’s general manager, factotum, and, on numerous occasions, father confessor.

Simon Pettibone is a dignified African-American who, along with his wife and children, keeps the Pelican in tip-top shape and solvent, and accounts for the length of our membership waiting list. At this early hour I was Mr. Pettibone’s only customer. Priscilla Pettibone, Simon’s beautiful and sassy daughter, was busy setting tables in the bar and dining room and the Pettibone son, Leroy, who wears the toque blanche, was in the kitchen whipping up delights, This left Mrs.

Pettibone, our den mother, who I assumed was upstairs in their apartment over the shop getting dolled up to greet the evening diners.

Simon was watching the television screen showing a running tape of the day’s stock quotations.

Are we up or down?” I asked Mr. Pettibone.

“Sideways, Archy,” he answered. Simon Pettibone was also something of a Wall Street guru, whose tips were sought by club members who enjoyed a roll of the dice at that legal gambling casino in lower Manhattan.

Anticipating my order, he began to prepare a frozen daiquiri.

“I had a drink with a woman today, Mr. Pettibone, who ordered a Pink Lady.”

Mr. Pettibone paused in his work, closed his eyes and recited: “Two ounces gin, one teaspoon grenadine, one teaspoon cream, one egg white, shake with ice and pour. Cherry, optional.”

This was a game Simon Pettibone and I played ever since I had come upon a vintage mixology handbook and discovered such alluring alcohol bracers as a Sazerac, a Sweet Potootie, a Seventh Heaven, an Arise My Love, and, my favorite, a Soul Kiss. One evening at the club I ordered the latter and was rendered flummoxed when Simon Pettibone, without so much as a blink of the eye, mixed bourbon, dry vermouth, Dubonnet, and orange juice in exacting proportions and presented me with my order.

Not only did Simon Pettibone know the ingredients of all the drinks in a book that was a relic of Prohibition, he also added a few that were not in my mixology guide. To wit: an Oliver Twist a martini with both olive and lemon. I never asked Mr. Pettibone from whence came this profundity of the mixologist’s art.

Placing my daiquiri before me, he said, “I have a poser for you.”

“I’m at your service, Mr. P.”

“Do you know the name Henry Peavey?”

It had been a long, hard day, so I thought about this short and easy.

Not having Sofia Richmond to fill in the blanks, I came up with nothing. “I’m sorry, Mr. Pettibone, I can’t say it means a thing to me. Should it?”

“I don’t know myself, Archy. Mrs. Pettibone got a letter from her cousin’s son, Lyle Washington, who lives in Sacramento. Lyle is the son of Hattie and Sam Washington. Henry Peavey was Hattie’s father.

Jasmine, Mrs. Pettibone, is a cousin of Sam Washington, not Hattie, and both of them are gone now.

“It seems Lyle was cleaning out the attic in the house left to him by his parents when he came upon his grandfather Peavey’s diary. His letter said it could be worth a fortune.”

“Why?” I responded.

“Beats me, Archy. I said Jasmine is related on the Washington side of the family and she’s never been very close to them as they’ve always lived in California. She knows even less about the Peaveys. Lyle wrote to Jasmine because, as he said in the letter, he understood we saw a lot of notables here in Palm Beach and he thought we might be helpful to him.”

“And that’s all he said?”

“That’s all, Archy. It looks to me as if Lyle just took it for granted that we, or at least Jasmine, knew the Peaveys and the significance of finding Henry’s diary.”

“Did Mrs. Pettibone call Lyle?” I asked.

“She did, and got no answer. Lyle is divorced and lives alone. She called Lyle’s daughter, who was just as mystified as we were. All she knew was that she got a call from her father who told her he was going south and for her to keep an eye on the house.”

“South?” I echoed. “Do the Peaveys have relatives in the south?”

Mr. Pettibone shook his head. “We don’t know and neither does Lyle’s daughter.”

“I think, Mr. Pettibone, all you can do now is wait for another communication from Lyle.”

“I agree, Archy. But you have to admit it’s a tantalizing puzzler.”

I would admit. I would also admit that after dealing with the trials and tribulations of Sabrina Wright, Binky Watrous, Hermioni Rutherford, Al Rogoff, and, by proxy, Bianca Courtney, I deserved an English Oval.

Therefore, I lit one.

“I thought you gave those up,” Priscilla said in passing.