Lawrence Sanders - McNally's chance

“What were you doing at Harry’s place?” he suddenly asked.

Calling Casa Gran “Harry’s place’ was like referring to Buckingham Palace as “Lizzy’s pad.” “He told you I was there in lieu of my father.”

“Spare me. Harry doesn’t need a lawyer unless he’s planning on making a new will which he isn’t.” He dragged on his cigarette and pulled out a handkerchief to wipe his forehead. “So?”

I pleaded client confidentiality and he attacked. “When I saw you with Harry at Troy’s fund-raiser I remembered that I met Sabrina at a party Harry gave in his hotel suite in Fort Lauderdale that spring thirty years ago. Harry must know her, too.”

Puff, puff. Wipe, wipe. “Sabrina hits town and contacts you. Her daughter starts snooping around and the next thing we know Harry Schuyler and I are chummy with Archy McNally. Coincidence?”

It was just what Sabrina had rightly feared. Open a can of worms and there’s no stopping them from crawling out. Was Appleton at that party? How long before Cranston would place all three of them in the same hotel suite, at the same time? But it wasn’t Gillian who wielded the can opener. It was Lolly Spindrift’s blind item that had the three former preppies in a dither. And two anonymous calls? Coincidence?

Avoiding his insinuation I got down to the nuts and bolts of our second meeting on wheels. “The police are going to question me,” I told him.

“And what are you going to tell them?” “The truth. What else? I often work with the police and screwing them has a boomerang effect. I have to work in this town, unless you have an opening at the Court of Saint James.” He pulled another cigarette from his pack and lit it with the other before tossing it out of the window. I hoped his buddy on Pennsylvania Avenue had more control over his emotions. “If you tell them about Sabrina and me all you’ll be doing is screwing me, my family, and everything I’ve worked for all my life. I didn’t do it and I can prove it. Fingering me would help no one but Sabrina’s killer.”

“What’s your alibi?” “It happened about ten Saturday night is that correct?” he said. I nodded. “Give or take an hour. The M.E. will always give himself an hour either way.” Puff, puff. Wipe, wipe. At seven that night my sponsor picked me up and we attended an AA meeting in West Palm. It lasted until eight. From there my sponsor, me, and two other persons from the meeting drove to a rehab center to lecture the new recruits. They didn’t like what we had to say. We left there at ten and went for pizza and Diet Coke. I was driven home just after midnight when my wife told me about the call from Washington and Sabrina’s murder.”

Silence. I mean, what could I say?”

He went on. “If you link me with Sabrina I will have to give the police my alibi. The world will learn of my problem as well as my boyhood indiscretion. I will most likely lose my appointment and the witnesses will have to be interrogated. My sponsor is a prominent family man. Also with us that night was a school teacher and single parent with a child to support. None of us are ashamed of what we are, but we do have our pride. You will be rocking many boats for no reason. Give it some thought, buddy.”

I was giving it so much thought I couldn’t think. Was he bluffing? If I folded and walked away he wins without showing his hand. If I called him and he laid out a royal flush I’m a skunk. Excuse the old cliche, but it does say it all damned if you do and damned if you don’t.

“Will you give me the names of your witnesses?” I said.

“No,” he responded without hesitation. He appeared to be in control of himself for the first time since entering the car. Looking at his cigarette as if wondering what it was doing in his hand, it followed its predecessor out the window. Perhaps the truth does set one free if he was telling the truth. It was a tough confession to make for a man with the conceit of Richard Cranston. Or was he manipulating me? Could I afford to take another chance or had I taken too many already?

“I have to think about it,” I finally said.

“Thanks.”

“For nada. May I say I admire your courage and wish you well in your new life?”

He smiled his best press-conference smile, obliterating the impudent snob. Which one was the real Richard Cranston? “My new life in sobriety or in England?”

“Why not both?” I answered.

“Before I go, tell me if Harry is involved in any of this. You know he’s dying?”

“And therefore he has carte blanche to commit murder. Sorry, but I won’t tell you the nature of my business with Harry Schuyler. Last time we met we talked about the sacrosanct nature of client confidentiality. It applies to all clients.”

“If you go to the police, you’ll be breaking the rule with this client.”

“As they say, Dickey, damned if you do and damned if you don’t.”

“You missed your calling, Archy, you should have gone into politics.”

On the drive back to the McNally Building I regretted that time did now allow me to present father with the perplexity of Cranston’s alibi.

Would Justice tip her scale in favor of the law or compassion for those brave souls striving to make a new life for themselves and trying to help others along the way? Archy leaned toward compassion, but Archy is a soft touch and is the guy telling the truth?

Herb gave me the high sign from his post in our underground garage.

Today, I did not need Mrs. Trelawney to tell me who had called. On the way to the elevator I paused long enough to report, “Binky’s waffles landed in his lap.”

Unconcerned at having presented Binky with a lethal weapon, Herb told me, Two of Binky’s fingers are wrapped in bandages.”

“Burns,” I said.

“No, Archy. The burns were superficial. Seems he nicked himself on his chopping block. Maybe he should go to a cooking school.”

“I think a reform school is the answer. Did he mention his new lady friend?”

“Mention her? He can’t stop talking about her. She bandaged his fingers.”

Binky Watrous was being buttered and bandaged by his neighbors. How nice. But did he know about the basketball player? I couldn’t wait to tell him.

I called Mrs. Trelawney. Mr. Appleton had called and left a number where I could reach him. It was urgent. Al Rogoff had called and said I should contact him regarding setting up an appointment to meet with the lieutenant in charge of the Sabrina Wright case. Nothing from Harry Schuyler.

Appleton picked up on the first ring. “Archy? Thank goodness. Where have you been?”

“Working, Tom. Some of us do, you know.”

“I must see you. You know why, I’m sure. Where can we meet privately?”

“The PB Institute of Contemporary Art?”

“They’re closed on Monday,” he said.

I thought a moment then asked, “Do you know where L’Encantada is now located?”

“Who doesn’t?” Appleton said.

“Meet me at the site in thirty minutes. It’s still a tourist attraction and we’ll pretend to be one of the gawkers.”

“Fine. I’m on my way.”

L’Encantada is an Addison Mizner mansion that has become one of the wonders of Palm Beach. Built in Manalapan in the roaring twenties, it was destined for demolition last winter when the daughter of a local real-estate investor attended a party in the doomed house and begged her father to save it. Recently divorced and wanting to please his little girl with a grand gesture, he bought the mansion for millions and spent even more millions to have it floated to a new site on Seaspray Avenue and South Ocean Boulevard.

Yes, I said, floated. Like Caesar’s Gaul, the twenty-room house was divided into three parts and each section, one weighing in at four hundred twenty tons,