McNally's Secret Read Free Page A

didn’t dawdle, they were just unbrisk.
    “Jamie,” I said, “do you know Kenneth? He drives for Lady Horowitz.”
    “I know him.”
    “What’s his last name?”
    “Bodin.”
    “What kind of a guy is he?”
    “Big.”
    I sighed. Getting information from Olson isn’t difficult, but it takes time.
    “How long has he been with Horowitz—do you know?”
    He paused a moment to think. “Mebbe five, six years.”
    “That sounds about right,” I said. “A few years ago there was talk going around that he was more than just her chauffeur. You hear anything about that?”
    “Uh-huh,” Jamie said. He brought my breakfast and poured himself more coffee.
    “You think there was anything to it?” I persisted.
    “Mebbe was, ” he said. “Then. Not now.”
    His taciturnity didn’t fool me; he enjoyed gossip as much as I did.
    You must understand that Palm Beach is a gossiper’s paradise. It is, in fact, the Gossip Capital of the World. In Palm Beach everyone gossips eagerly and constantly. I mean we relish it.
    “Is this Kenneth Bodin married?” I pressed on, slathering my toast with the mango jelly Jamie had thoughtfully set out.
    “Nope.”
    “Girlfriend?”
    “Mebbe.”
    “Anyone I might know?”
    He slowly removed his cold pipe from his dentures and regarded me gravely. “She gives massages,” he said.
    “No kidding?” I said, interested. “Well, at the moment I’m not acquainted with any masseuses. She work in West Palm Beach?”
    “Did,” Olson said. “Till the cops closed her down.”
    “And what is she doing now?”
    He was still staring at me. “This and that,” he said.
    “All right,” I said hurriedly, “I get the picture. Ask around, will you, and see if you can find out her name and address.”
    He nodded.
    I finished my breakfast and went into my father’s study to use his directory and phone. The old man puts covers on his telephone directories. Other people do that, of course, but most use clear plastic. My father bound his directories in genuine leather. I mention this merely to illustrate how meticulous he was in his pursuit of gentility.
    I looked up the number of Lady Cynthia Horowitz and dialed. Got the housekeeper, identified myself, and asked to speak to the mistress. Instead, as I knew would happen, I was shunted to Consuela Garcia. She was Lady Cynthia’s social secretary and general factotum.
    I knew Consuela, who had come over from Havana during the Mariel boatlift. A few years previously she and I had a mad, passionate romance that lasted all of three weeks. Then she discovered that when it comes to wedding bells I am tone-deaf, and she gave me the broom. Fair enough. But we were still friends, I thought, although now when we met at parties and dances, we shook hands instead of sharing a smooch.
    “Archy,” she said, “how nice to hear from you.”
    “How are you, Connie?”
    “Very well, thank you.”
    “I saw you out at Wellington last Saturday,” I told her. “That was a very handsome lad you were with. Is he new?”
    “Not really,” she said, laughing. “He’s been used. What can I do for you, Archy?”
    “An audience with Lady C. Half-hour, an hour at the most.”
    “What’s it about?”
    “Charity subscription,” I said, not knowing if Horowitz had told her of the disappearance of the Inverted Jennies. “We’ve simply got to do something to save the hard-nosed gerbils.”
    “The what? ”
    “Hard-nosed gerbils. Delightful little beasties, but they’re dwindling, Connie, definitely dwindling.”
    “I don’t know,” she said doubtfully. “Everyone’s been hitting on her lately to help save something or other.”
    “Give it a try,” I urged.
    She came back on the phone a few moments later. “If you can come over immediately,” she said, sounding surprised, “Lady Cynthia will see you.”
    “Thank you, Connie,” I said humbly. I can do humble.
    The Miata is not a car whose door you open to enter. As with the old MG, you vault into