McNally's Trial by Lawrence Sanders Read Free Book Online Page B

similarly uneventful. I did have my quadriga washed and its gullet filled. But other than that, the day was without excitement.
    I finished my two-mile wallow in a placid sea and returned home to dress for the Whitcomb party. It was still warmish in South Florida and I decided on a white dinner jacket: a costume my father insists makes me look like the headwaiter at a Miami stone crab restaurant.
    We all gathered for a cocktail before setting out for the bash. Hizzoner was wearing his rather rusty black tuxedo with a pleated white shirt (wing collar) and onyx studs. Of course his cummerbund and tie were black, and the bow was hand-tied. He considered pretied bows a portent of the decline of Western Civilization.
    I must confess he looked rather regal in his formal attire, not at all like a mustachioed penguin. But mother was the star. She was absolutely smashing in a long brocaded gown and carried an aqua satin minaudière. Her white curls were a halo and she wore a three-strand, choker of pink pearls. Momsy has a natural high color and that evening she positively glowed: a teenager ready for the prom.
    We emptied the martini pitcher and trooped downstairs, laughing for no particular reason. Ursi and Jamie Olson came from the kitchen to tell us how magnificent we all looked and to wish us a wonderful evening.
    Father drove his big Lexus with mother sitting alongside him. I followed in my flaming scooter, feeling like the skipper of a dinghy trailing the QE2. I think we were all stimulated by the prospect of attending a lavish and crowded revel. The social season in Palm Beach was just getting under way. This was the first big party and offered an opportunity to shed the doldrums of a too long and too hot summer.
    I know I was convinced it was going to be a glorious rollick during which I would meet The Girl of My Dreams (Clara Bow) and be universally admired for my skill in executing the Charleston. I would forget about whatever nonsense was transpiring at Whitcomb Funeral Homes and spend a rompish night obeying Herrick’s command: “Gather ye rosebuds while ye may.” That was my firm intention.
    One never knows, do one?

7.
    T HE HOME OF SARAH and Horace, the senior Whitcombs, was a palazzo on North Lake Way. It was an aging edifice somewhat lacking in charm. The most amazing feature was the vegetation. I mean, the lot had to be almost two acres and looked like an arboretum with hedges fifteen feet high. You could hardly see the house until you were standing at the front door.
    Valet parking had been provided; we surrendered our vehicles and stepped up to a portico topped by a wrought-iron balcony. Awaiting my arrival was Signore Binky Watrous, the tyro Mike Hammer. I blinked when I saw his costume.
    The idiot was sockless and wearing white mocs, white trousers, and a white shirt with a cascade of ruffles. Worse, his jacket, cummerbund, and bow tie were red checkered linen, looking as if they had been made from the tablecloth of a cheap Neapolitan restaurant. He should have been carrying an empty Chianti bottle wrapped in raffia with a candle stub stuck in its mouth.
    “Fetching?” he asked, smoothing the hideously wide lapels.
    “I wish someone would,” I said. “Binky, where did you get that monstrosity?”
    “I had it designed especially for me.”
    “By whom—the ghost of Liberace? Here is your invitation. I suggest you precede me and for the remainder of the evening let’s pretend we are total strangers to each other.”
    “You want me to ask questions?” he said eagerly. “You know, interrogate people? The old third degree.”
    “By all means,” I said. “If you can find anyone willing to be seen conversing with Bozo the Clown.”
    My parents had already entered. Binky went inside and I waited a few moments, mortified by the appearance of my henchman. He looked as if he’d be right at home on the stage of the Grand Ole Opry—playing a kazoo no doubt.
    I walked through the open front door and