McNally's Puzzle by Lawrence Sanders Read Free Book Online Page A

buttonholes. It’s the details that seduce me.
    I perked up my subdued jacket with a pink Lacoste and slacks of a lemonade shade. Plus loafers in a hellish vermilion. No socks. When I inspected the complete ensemble in the bathroom door mirror I decided the effect was twee but not too. The stodgy jacket marked me as a man of substance but the accoutrements proved I was capable of frivolity. Oh lordy, how we deceive ourselves.
    The client’s home was located in an upscale neighborhood of Palm Beach which appeared to be a small territory inhabited solely by fanatic horticulturists. I mean, I have never in my life seen such a profusion of tropical foliage. It was like driving through a South Florida rain forest, and if I had heard the chattering of monkeys and the snorting of wild boars I wouldn’t have been a bit surprised.
    The Gottschalk manse was quite a sight. It had been built, I judged, in the 1930s as a Mediterranean-style villa. More recently, additions had been made that were more Lake Okeechobee than Mediterranean. There were two wings, a guest house, an enlarged garage. The original edifice had also been embellished with bays, turrets, a widow’s walk, and a tall, battered cupola which seemed to have no reason for existence other than providing a comfort station for migrating fowl.
    It was an eccentric dwelling and, I thought, probably suited the owner just fine.
    There were several cars already parked in the slated driveway. One of the vehicles, I noted, was Binky Watrous’s dinged 1970 Mercedes-Benz 280 SE cabriolet. Trust my loopy Dr. Watson to be early when free booze and tasty viands were available.
    I entered into a brightly lighted interior, a circus of bustle, loud talk, hefty laughter, and the recorded voice of Tony Bennett singing “It Don’t Mean a Thing.” I was somewhat taken aback by this jollity only because I was privy to the grave problems of the host. The dichotomy was disturbing and I decided my wisest course was to dull my unease with a dram or two of suitably diluted ethanol at the earliest possible moment.
    I had those two drams during a chaotic party. But my libations were minuscule—infinitesimal one might even say—and I assure you the McNally mental faculties were not hazed. I smiled, conversed, joked, and followed Dr. Gussie Pearlberg’s instructions to pry, ask questions, get to know them all.
    It was a kaleidoscopic evening and I shall not attempt to give it a linear or temporal sequence.
    I was standing at their modest bar, adding a bit of aqua to my 80-proof, when I felt a light touch on my shoulder. I turned to face a smiling woman, mature, stalwart, and not much shorter than I. She was quite dark: tanned complexion, jetty hair, black eyebrows that looked as if they had been squeezed from tubes.
    “Good evening!” she said in a hearty contralto voice. “I’m Yvonne Chrisling, Mr. Gottschalk’s housekeeper. And you?”
    “Archy McNally, representing McNally and Son, attorneys-at-law. I’m the Son.”
    “Of course,” she said, offering a hand. “So nice of you to come.”
    “So nice of you to invite me.” Her handclasp was dry and surprisingly strong. “You have a lovely home, and it appears to be a joyous party.”
    She laughed. “Well, thank you. The occasion is to welcome the girls home from Europe. As for our home, I’m afraid it may seem somewhat, ah...”
    “Disheveled?” I suggested.
    She laughed again, a throaty sound. “Exactly. You do have a way with words, Mr. McNally.”
    “Archy,” I said. “And may I call you Yvonne?”
    “Of course. Everyone does.”
    “Now that we have a first-name relationship, may I ask a personal question?”
    Her face didn’t freeze but I did detect a sudden wariness. “Ask away,” she said.
    “I know the manager of Parrots Unlimited is Ricardo Chrisling. Your son?”
    “Stepson,” she said rather stiffly. “By my husband who is now deceased. Do enjoy yourself, Archy, and don’t forget the buffet. We don’t