McNally's Risk Read Free Page B

one-upmanship.
    “Archy McNally,” I said, as equably as I could.
    “Oh yeah,” he said. “The lawyer feller. Didn’t know you were interested in fine art.”
    “Oh my yes,” I said. “I have a lovely collection of Bugs Bunny eels. Good show tonight.”
    “I think so,” he said complacently. “People know quality when they see it. You caught my latest? The portrait of Theodosia Johnson?”
    “Extraordinary,” I said.
    “It is that,” he agreed. “Took me a week to do her lips.”
    A ribald reply leaped to mind, but I squelched it. “By the way, Si,” I said, “may I give you a call? It concerns a silly inquiry I’m making. Nothing of any great importance.”
    “Sure,” he said casually, his eyes roving. “Anytime.”
    Then we were jostled away from the bar and separated. I finally decided I had to make my move—win or lose. So I joined the ring of admirers, and sure enough Theodosia Johnson was at the center, flushed but poised and accepting compliments with the graciousness of E. II. I slowly inched forward until I was standing directly in front of Madam X herself.
    “Archy McNally,” I said, giving her the 150-watt smile I call my Jumbocharmer.
    “Theo Johnson,” she said, and reached out a hand to shake. It was one of the hardest decisions of my life to let go.
    “A fantastic portrait, Miss Johnson,” I told her. “But it doesn’t do you justice.”
    “Thank you,” she murmured, and gave me the full blaze of azure eyes. “You’re very kind.”
    Naturally I wanted to say more, but I was elbowed away by other victims, and regretfully departed with the feeling that I had been privileged to be in the presence of great, almost supernal beauty. For the third time, Lolly Spindrift had been right: my timbers had been shivered and I was in love.
    Again.
    I left the gallery and drove home singing one of my favorite songs: “When It’s Apple Blossom Time in Orange, New Jersey, We’ll Make a Peach of a Pair.”

Chapter 2
    I AWOKE THE NEXT morning with the conviction that if Johnny Keats was right—“Beauty is truth, truth beauty.”—then Mrs. Smythe-Hersforth had no reason to worry about the motives of Ms. Theodosia Johnson. How could a paragon with that mass of shimmering chestnut hair, those burning eyes, that Limoges complexion ever be guilty of even the teeniest deceit? Ridiculous! As far as I was concerned, my investigation could be canceled forthwith.
    But I knew if I dared suggest such a thing to my father, he wouldn’t say a word. He would merely glare at me from under those snarled eyebrows, and that would be my answer. So, sighing, I started the second day of what I later came to call The Affair of Madam X.
    I was late getting downstairs, as usual, and so I breakfasted in the kitchen, served by Jamie Olson. He was working on what was probably his third mug of black coffee to which, I was sure, he had added a splash of aquavit.
    Jamie is seventyish, semi-wizened, and a taciturn bloke. He is also privy to all the backstairs gossip in Palm Beach, stuff even Lolly Spindrift isn’t aware of since it’s shared only by the servants of the Island’s nabobs. And the things these maids, chauffeurs, valets, housekeeps, and butlers know or suspect would make a platoon of tabloid editors moan with delight.
    “Jamie,” I said, after I had smeared my toasted onion bagel with salmon mousse, “have you ever heard of Theodosia Johnson?”
    “Yep,” he said. “A looker.”
    “She is that,” I agreed. “I understand she’s been here about a year. Lives with her father, Hector, in a rented condo. Do they have any staff?”
    “Don’t know.”
    “Could you find out?”
    “Mebbe.”
    “What about the Smythe-Hersforths? Hear any talk?”
    “Tight.”
    “Tight? You mean stingy?”
    “Uh-huh.”
    I seemed to be making little progress with Jamie, but I had learned from past experience that patience frequently paid off. He really was a remarkable fount of inside info. Turning on the tap