McNally's Risk Read Free

oblongata had not lost its keen edge.
    But it was then threeish or fourish, much too late to return to the salt mines. So I drove home, slowly and cautiously, and took a nap.
    I roused an hour later, full of p&v, and went for my daily swim. The Atlantic is just across Ocean Boulevard from the McNally digs, and I try to do two miles each day, chugging along parallel to the shore and hoping no Portuguese man-of-war is lurking nearby, licking its chops. I returned home in time to dress and attend the cocktail hour, a family ceremony. That evening, as usual, my father did the honors, stirring up a pitcher of traditional dry martinis.
    My mother, Madelaine, is one of the ditsiest of all mommies, but a lovely gentlewoman who talks to her begonias. She also drinks sauterne with meat and fish courses and is very concerned about the ozone layer, without quite knowing what ozone is.
    My father, Prescott McNally, has been playing the part of landed gentry so long that he has become exactly that: a squire, rectitudinous attorney, and possibly the most hidebound man I know. He has a wide Guardsman’s mustache, tangled as the Amazon rain forest, and I like to visualize him wearing a busby, planted outside Buckingham Palace, staring fixedly into space.
    I don’t wish to imply that my parents are “characters.” They, and I, would be offended by that designation. They are just very decent, loving, and lovable human beings. They have their oddities—but who does not? I happen to believe I do a marvelous imitation of Humphrey Bogart, though friends assure me I sound more like Donald Duck.
    What I’m trying to convey is that I love my parents. Of course. But just as important, I enjoy them. How many sons and daughters can say that?
    That evening I was wearing the palest of pink linen suits with a deep lavender polo shirt of Sea Island cotton. Tasseled white loafers with no socks, of course. My father raised one eyebrow (a trick I’ve never been able to master), and I hastened to explain the glad rags.
    “I’m attending an exhibit at the Pristine Gallery tonight,” I said. “Silas Hawkin’s paintings. I understand the showpiece will be his latest work, a portrait of Theodosia Johnson.”
    “Ah,” the guv said.
    Mother looked up. “I’ve met her father,” she declared. “Hector Johnson. A very fine gentleman.”
    The pater and I exchanged glances.
    “How did you happen to meet him, Maddie?” he asked.
    “Why, he joined our garden club,” she said. “He’s only been in South Florida a short while—about a year I think he said—and he’s into orchids. He seems very knowledgeable.”
    “How old is he, mother?” I inquired.
    “Oh, I don’t know, Archy,” she answered. “Mid-sixties perhaps. Shall I ask him?”
    McNally père smiled. “I don’t think that will be necessary,” he said. “A civilized man?”
    “Charming,” mother said, “just charming! He said my ‘Iron Cross’ was the healthiest begonia he had ever seen.”
    Father gulped the remainder of his martini. “That was very kind of him,” he said, absolutely deadpan. “Shall we go down to dinner?”
    I remember well the menu that night, the way I imagine the condemned might savor their last meal before the unknown. Ursi Olson, our cook-housekeeper, had sautéed red snapper with white wine and shallots. And husband Jamie, our houseman, served the dessert: chocolate torte with cappuccino ice cream. Any wonder why the waistbands of my slacks continue to shrink?
    Before departing for the Pristine Gallery I climbed to the third floor of the McNally faux Tudor manor. There, under a leaking copper roof, I had my own aerie, a rather dilapidated but snug suite: sitting room, bedroom, bath. Not luxurious, you understand, but you couldn’t beat the rent. Zip.
    Since becoming chief of Discreet Inquiries at McNally & Son, I had kept a private journal in which I recorded the details of my investigations. It was an invaluable aid in keeping track of things,