I can’t tell you how much better I feel knowing you’re going to try.”
She twisted awkwardly to kiss me. I held her a brief moment. Her strong body felt slithery under the black satin.
I waited until the front door closed behind her, then I headed homeward. I was in a thoughtful mood, asking a number of questions to which I had no answers, to wit:
Why did she select the Pelican Club as a setting in which to tell me of her missing jewelry? We could have had the same conversation in the privacy of the Forsythe Library.
With whom had she previously visited the Club—her ex-beau, the polo player who allegedly dumped her—but not before clipping her for “heavy bucks”?
Why had she thought it necessary to dress as she had—to help persuade yrs. truly to come to the aid of a damsel in distress?
Why did she believe her father would immediately call in the police if she told him of her stolen gems when he refused to inform the authorities when his own property was snatched?
I fell asleep that night still wrestling with those conundrums. (Naturally I neglected to phone Connie Garcia.) And when I awoke on a rainy Saturday morning I had not solved a blessed one. I began to wonder if Geraldine Forsythe might be a Baroness von Munchhausen with a penchant for spinning wild and improbable tales.
I could understand that. I like to spin them myself.
Usually my father spent Saturdays at his golf club, playing eighteen holes with the same foursome for the past century or two. But that morning was so wet and blowy there was no hope of getting in a game and so he had retired to his study with a copy of Barron’s —to check the current value of his Treasury bonds no doubt.
Griswold Forsythe II belonged to father’s club, an organization with a male membership so long in the tooth it was said you could not hope to be admitted unless you could prove prostate problems. A canard, of course.
I reckoned the same wretched weather keeping Sir McNally indoors was also forcing Mr. Forsythe to remain at home. I felt I needed more information from him regarding his missing geegaws: insured value, location of the items before they disappeared, who amongst family and staff knew where they were kept, and so forth. I phoned the Forsythe home and, after identifying myself, asked to speak to the lord of the manor.
When he came on the line it was obvious he was extremely agitated. “Archy,” he said, “can you come over at once?”
“Is anything wrong?” I asked.
“Something dreadful has happened.”
“Be right there,” I promised.
I pulled on a yellow oilskin and, not wanting to waste time putting the lid on my barouche, I asked mother if I might borrow her ancient Ford station wagon. Within moments I was driving northward along the shore through a squall so violent it threatened to blow me off the road. If I had been in the Miata I suspect I would have ended up in Tampa.
And when I arrived at the Forsythe castle I found the atmosphere as chaotic inside as out. It took me awhile to learn the cause of the disturbance, for everyone insisted on speaking at once and there was a great wringing of hands, tears from the women and curses from the men. Disorder reigned supreme.
I was finally able to extract a semicoherent account of what had occurred. Apparently, during the wee hours of the morning, someone had entered the bedroom of Mrs. Sylvia Forsythe III and attempted to strangle her. She and her husband occupied separate bedchambers, she never locked her door, and the assault was not discovered until she failed to appear at breakfast.
The giggling maid, Fern, was sent to ask if Mrs. Sylvia wanted something brought up, and it was she who found the victim lying unconscious on the floor, nightclothes in disarray. Fern’s screams brought the others running and when the young woman could not be roused the family physician was called.
He arrived within a half-hour and was able to revive Mrs. Sylvia. She was presently in bed and,
She twisted awkwardly to kiss me. I held her a brief moment. Her strong body felt slithery under the black satin.
I waited until the front door closed behind her, then I headed homeward. I was in a thoughtful mood, asking a number of questions to which I had no answers, to wit:
Why did she select the Pelican Club as a setting in which to tell me of her missing jewelry? We could have had the same conversation in the privacy of the Forsythe Library.
With whom had she previously visited the Club—her ex-beau, the polo player who allegedly dumped her—but not before clipping her for “heavy bucks”?
Why had she thought it necessary to dress as she had—to help persuade yrs. truly to come to the aid of a damsel in distress?
Why did she believe her father would immediately call in the police if she told him of her stolen gems when he refused to inform the authorities when his own property was snatched?
I fell asleep that night still wrestling with those conundrums. (Naturally I neglected to phone Connie Garcia.) And when I awoke on a rainy Saturday morning I had not solved a blessed one. I began to wonder if Geraldine Forsythe might be a Baroness von Munchhausen with a penchant for spinning wild and improbable tales.
I could understand that. I like to spin them myself.
Usually my father spent Saturdays at his golf club, playing eighteen holes with the same foursome for the past century or two. But that morning was so wet and blowy there was no hope of getting in a game and so he had retired to his study with a copy of Barron’s —to check the current value of his Treasury bonds no doubt.
Griswold Forsythe II belonged to father’s club, an organization with a male membership so long in the tooth it was said you could not hope to be admitted unless you could prove prostate problems. A canard, of course.
I reckoned the same wretched weather keeping Sir McNally indoors was also forcing Mr. Forsythe to remain at home. I felt I needed more information from him regarding his missing geegaws: insured value, location of the items before they disappeared, who amongst family and staff knew where they were kept, and so forth. I phoned the Forsythe home and, after identifying myself, asked to speak to the lord of the manor.
When he came on the line it was obvious he was extremely agitated. “Archy,” he said, “can you come over at once?”
“Is anything wrong?” I asked.
“Something dreadful has happened.”
“Be right there,” I promised.
I pulled on a yellow oilskin and, not wanting to waste time putting the lid on my barouche, I asked mother if I might borrow her ancient Ford station wagon. Within moments I was driving northward along the shore through a squall so violent it threatened to blow me off the road. If I had been in the Miata I suspect I would have ended up in Tampa.
And when I arrived at the Forsythe castle I found the atmosphere as chaotic inside as out. It took me awhile to learn the cause of the disturbance, for everyone insisted on speaking at once and there was a great wringing of hands, tears from the women and curses from the men. Disorder reigned supreme.
I was finally able to extract a semicoherent account of what had occurred. Apparently, during the wee hours of the morning, someone had entered the bedroom of Mrs. Sylvia Forsythe III and attempted to strangle her. She and her husband occupied separate bedchambers, she never locked her door, and the assault was not discovered until she failed to appear at breakfast.
The giggling maid, Fern, was sent to ask if Mrs. Sylvia wanted something brought up, and it was she who found the victim lying unconscious on the floor, nightclothes in disarray. Fern’s screams brought the others running and when the young woman could not be roused the family physician was called.
He arrived within a half-hour and was able to revive Mrs. Sylvia. She was presently in bed and,