McNally's Gamble Read Free Page A

yourself?”
    “Don’t I always?”
    “No,” she said. “Why haven’t you called?”
    “I am calling,” I said. “Right this very minute. It is I, Archibald McNally, famed epicure, bon vivant, dilettante, and lout-about-town. How are you, hon?”
    “Okay, I guess. Tired. Lady C. has been working my fanny to a nubbin. She’s planning a sit-down dinner for local pols and so far she’s changed the time twice, the menu three times, and the guest list is revised every hour on the hour. She’s been a world-class pain.”
    Connie is employed as social secretary to Lady Cynthia Horowitz, possibly the wealthiest doyenne in Palm Beach, proud of six ex-husbands, and possessing the personal warmth and social graces of a pit viper. I happen to admire the Lady and consider her prickliness more amusing than offensive. She does have many local detractors but I suspect their enmity springs from envy. They have never been invited to dine at her table and enjoy the risotto alia champagne e foie gras prepared by her French chef.
    “Suffer in silence,” I advised Connie. “Christmas is right around the corner and with it comes your annual bonus.”
    “Good thinking on your part,” Connie said.
    “Listen, hon,” I said. “How about dinner on Saturday?”
    “I may work. If I do, dinner will have to be late and informal. I’ll let you know.”
    “Whatever,” I said. “Your wish is my command.”
    “Since when?” she scoffed. “Now I’m going to crash. I’m exhausted.”
    “Sleep well, luv,” I said.
    That was the extent of our conversation. Please note the teasing tone and absence of vows of love and/or passion. I enjoyed our casual relationship and—fearing a closer alliance: the dreaded M-word—hoped it would continue. Sheer cowardice on my part, of course.
    Despite her zealous investigation and occasional confirmation of my extracurricular activities, Connie endured. She was suspicious, jealous, and had every right to be. But she endured. What a marvelous woman she was! And what a cur I was.
    I resolutely turned my thoughts away from my own behavior to a more immediate problem: the conduct of an “investment adviser” who sought to persuade a financially naive widow to purchase a Fabergé egg. Why that particular bijou, I wondered, and not a bag of diamonds, a Rembrandt, or even the jawbone of a dinosaur?
    What exactly did I know about Fabergé eggs? Not a great deal. The treasures were designed and created by the world-famous House of Fabergé, jewelers and goldsmiths, headquartered in St. Petersburg. They were commissioned by the Russian czars Alexander III and his son Nicholas II. Two of the opulent fantasies were made each year from 1885 to 1917 and given by the reigning czar to his wife and mother to celebrate the Russian Easter.
    At the moment that was the extent of my knowledge and I realized I’d have to learn more. One final personal note: Several years previously I had seen four Fabergé eggs exhibited at a Manhattan art gallery. I was surprised by their size—or lack thereof. I had envisioned towering wonders of gold and diamonds. What I saw were glittering masterpieces no higher than six inches. It made their artfully detailed craftsmanship all the more impressive.
    I keep a journal in which I record accounts of my Discreet Inquiries. I try to make entries every day or so during the course of an investigation. I include everything: facts, rumors, surmises, even scraps of conversation and descriptions of the physical appearance, personality, dress, and habits of the people involved.
    Donning my reading specs, I flipped to a fresh page and began scribbling notes on Mrs. Edythe Westmore, her investment adviser, and the Fabergé objets de luxe. I thought of heading the page “The Case of the Rotten Egg” but discarded the notion. A few weeks later I was happy I had.
    Labors completed, I had one more marc, a final coffin nail, and listened to a tape of Ella Fitzgerald singing “I Didn’t Know What