McNally's Chance by Lawrence Sanders Page A

hints from Sabrina.”
    Her memoirs, was it? The lady had lived a long life, had had at least as many husbands as fingers on her right hand, all rich and one titled.
    She was a living Sabrina Wright novel. Did she imagine a book-signing party at the Classic Bookshop on S. County Road where the couturier and graphic artist Michael
    Vollbracht recently appeared to push the reissue of his book Nothing Sacred? The dishy primer is famous for Vollbracht’s sketch of the late Marjorie Merriweather Post holding up a box of Grape-Nuts.
    No one knew more about sex, money, and manipulation than Lady Cynthia Horowitz and I said as much. “There’s nothing Sabrina can teach the Madam, Connie. She’s been there, done that, and lived to tell about it. Besides, I’m off the case.”
    “So soon?” Connie seemed surprised.
    “Yeah. I found her daughter and the guy she ran off with.” It was a slight exaggeration, but who… found whom was now a moot question and when in doubt, take the credit, I always say.
    “Madam doesn’t believe the man that got away was Sabrina’s daughter’s lover,” Connie said. “Nor do I.”
    Nor do Thomas Appleton, do he? I kept that to myself, however. With Connie I often share and confide, but given the dramatis personae of this charade I immediately decided to play my hand close to the vest.
    Besides, I still was not sure what Thomas Appleton wanted to see me about. Not contemporary art, that’s for sure.
    “And who does Madam think the guy is?” I asked.
     
    “Sabrina’s young and gorgeous lover,” Connie gushed.
    That figures.

Eight
    The next morning I called upon Sofia Richmond once again to get some background information on the Palm Beach Institute of Contemporary Art.
    When I’m able, I like to do a little homework before meeting with a new client, if indeed Thomas Appleton would become a client. As he was a patron of the museum it wouldn’t hurt to bone up on its history so as to appear smarter than I am. Who knows, the guy might ask questions.
    I didn’t have to delve into the Appleton family closet as its contents were more or less in the public domain. If it contained a skeleton, as I now suspected it did, its name was Sabrina Wright.
    The PBICA, as it’s familiarly referred to in print, owes its existence to the philanthropists, Robert and Mary Montgomery. He is a noted attorney. The Montgomerys renovated the Lake Theater, a landmark art deco movie house that now houses the PBICA, after purchasing it from the Palm Beach Community College. The facility formerly held the contemporary art and design collection of J. Patrick Lannan. When the Lannan Foundation relocated the collection to Los Angeles, they donated the building to the college.
    The PBICA purports to be a venue for major national and international art in all media and a meeting ground for the diverse populations who live in and visit the Palm Beach region. Who could find fault with that?
    I got there minutes after it opened its doors to the public and wondered whom I could bill the three-buck admission charge to Appleton or Sabrina? It was most likely to show up on my expense report as a miscellaneous disbursement, a category that often comprised fifty-five percent of my expenditures, much to Mrs. Trelawney’s chagrin. I ambled around, fascinated with what I looked upon, before making my way to the second floor and the New Media Lounge.
    Thomas Appleton was already there, seated before three television screens. He rose when I entered and came to meet me.
    “Mr. McNally, thank you for being prompt.” He offered his hand and we shook.
     
    “I glanced at the exhibits before coming up and was most impressed,” I said. “I intend to come back when I can give them more attention.”
    “Shall we sit?” When we did Appleton pointed to the screens. “Each shows a video presentation by a current artist. As you can see there is no audio.” Pointing to the earphones on an ultramodern glass-top table, he instructed,