McNally's Secret by Lawrence Sanders Read Free Book Online

had lamb chops with fresh mint sauce. Different from Leroy Pettibone’s hamburgers, but not necessarily better. Just different.
    Now I must tell you something about my mother since she was fated to play an important role in what I later came to call “The Direful Case of the Inverted Jenny.”
    Her name was Madelaine, and she was the dearest, sweetest woman who ever lived but, like all mothers, slightly dotty. She was a native Floridian, which is very rare; most Floridians were born in Ohio. She met my father-to-be when she worked as a secretary in the Miami law firm he joined after becoming a full-fledged attorney. It turned out to be a splendid match.
    Not that there weren’t disagreements, but they were mostly of a minor nature. My parents could never, ever, agree on the proper temperature setting for their bedroom air conditioner. And my father decried mother’s insistence on drinking sauterne with meat and fish courses, while she could never understand why on earth he demanded starch in the collars and cuffs of his dress shirts.
    A more serious personal problem was Madelaine McNally’s health. My mother was overweight, not obese but definitely much, much too plump. In addition, she suffered from high blood pressure, which probably accounted for her somewhat florid complexion and occasional shortness of breath. Our family physician had put her on a strict diet, and we were bewildered that it resulted in no weight loss. Then we discovered she had been sneaking chocolate truffles while working amidst her begonias in the greenhouse.
    But she really was a wonderful woman, and I loved her. I shall always treasure the profound advice she gave me in the first letter I received at New Haven. “Archy,” she wrote, “live as if every day may be your last, and always have on clean underwear.”
    That night, during the minty lamb chops, mother and I chatted of this and that, laughed, and then clapped our hands when Ursi Olson brought us fresh, chilled raspberries topped with a sinful dollop of whipped cream.
    “No-cal,” Ursi assured my mother.
    “I don’t care,” she said. “I just don’t care. Life is too short.”
    Over coffee, I remarked that I had seen Lady Cynthia Horowitz that morning.
    “Oh? I hope you gave her our best wishes.”
    “Of course I did,” I said, though I hadn’t.
    “What an unhappy woman,” my mother said, suddenly saddened. “I feel sorry for her.”
    “Mother! That woman’s got everything!”
    “No,” she said, “she doesn’t. She wants it all, and no one can have it all.”
    I thought she was talking goofy nonsense and made no response. We left the table, and mother returned to the sitting room for an evening of television. I went upstairs to my suite to enter the day’s events in my journal.
    But first I phoned Jennifer Towley on my private line. I got her answering machine, and after the beep, I said, “Jennifer, this is Archibald McNally. It is vitally, urgently, desperately important that I speak to you. Please call me at any hour of the day or night.” Then I recited my unlisted number, said, “Thank you,” and hung up.
    I lighted my first English Oval of the day (I was so proud) and wondered again what Lady Horowitz had been hinting about Jennifer. I could not believe that cool, complete woman could be guilty of anything more serious than an ingrown toenail, but it was mildly unsettling to discover she was the subject of Palm Beach gossip.
    I had worked on my journal for more than an hour, jotting down what I had learned that day, when my phone rang about nine-thirty, and I grabbed it up and said, “H’lo?”
    “Jennifer Towley,” she said crisply. “What on earth is so vitally, urgently, desperately important?”
    “Have you decided to see me again?” I asked eagerly.
    “I’m still considering it.”
    “Well, you must,” I said. “The Board of Directors of McNally and Son, in solemn conclave assembled, voted to reward you with a gift for your splendid