McNally's Dilemma by Lawrence Sanders, Vincent Lardo Page B

two. Things were looking up. “Did you notice Lolly in the crowd?”
    “Of course,” Meecham answered.
    “Well, Lolly came with Geoff Williams,” I exclaimed.
    That, finally, got Phil Meecham’s undivided attention. “Lolly and Geoff together? Really? Is that why Melva shot him?”
    Peanut Island loomed ahead of us and I figured the boat was making more progress than I was. “No, Phil. She shot him because he couldn’t remember who was at your party.”
    My words went either unheard or unheeded as we sailed through the Lake Worth Inlet before plowing into the Atlantic with a thrust of the prow that bespoke the apocalyptic clash between irresistible force and immovable object. While the Atlantic was indeed an irresistible force, Meecham’s expensive tub was far from immovable. In fact, the yacht’s motions were rather like the undulations of the Minsky chorus girls who added the oomph to Grandfather McNally’s act that kept the paying customers begging for more.
    “We’ll calm down once we get our stride,” Meecham reported.
    I deposited my glass in a hole in the arm of my deck chair made especially for this purpose. I had hardly touched my tomato and vodka but noticed that the only thing left in Meecham’s glass was the swizzle stick, which, incidently, was a plastic rendition of a celery stalk. “How close to the shore can we get?” I asked, hoping my stomach would focus in on the S word and give me some peace. It didn’t.
    “Buzz said the tide is with us, so I suppose we can get within a hundred yards of the beach.”
    I would hate to see the tide when it was agin’ us.
    Meecham took a deep breath and ran his fingers through his hair in a futile attempt to keep it off his forehead, where the wind insisted it belonged. “I love the ocean,” he called, competing with the roar of the surf and the drone of our diesel engine.
    “So do I,” I yelled back. “I swim every day, weather permitting.”
    “I use the pool at the Bath and Tennis,” Meecham said.
    “I prefer the ocean,” I answered, then added, “for swimming.”
    “At the Bath and Tennis the pool water is piped in from the Atlantic,” Meecham informed me.
    If I swam offshore of the Bath and Tennis, might I get pulled into one of their pipes and end up doing laps with charter members? In my cerise Speedos? Perhaps I had better rethink my bathing attire.
    We were moving south now under a partly cloudy sky and a sun playing peekaboo with the Atlantic Ocean. Buzz had us close enough to the shore so that I might easily pick out the elegant Breakers—the Palm Beach Country Club—and the Bath and Tennis Club, which I now knew was sucking in the water beneath us. A few minutes later First Mate Buzz turned off our engine, allowing the Sans Souci to rock in the surf like an oversize sitting duck.
    “This must be the place,” Meecham announced, rising from his deck chair.
    As we approached the salon, Veronica and Lolly stepped out onto the deck, where Buzz was already waiting. The scribe resembled a cat who had just enjoyed a bowl of cream, so I assumed all went well with the interview. Veronica had tied back her hair with what appeared to be a simple piece of string and looked more enticing than ever. Buzz, as previously stated, looked like Cary Grant from the neck up and an ad for an exercise machine from that point down. Archy looked a bit green around the gills for more reasons than I care to elaborate on.
    “There’s the house,” Buzz said, pointing toward shore. He was rewarded with a touch of Veronica’s hand on his muscled arm.
    “I’ll stay with the ship,” Meecham informed us. “The rest of you get into the speedboat. Buzz’ll pilot you onto the beach.”
    I hadn’t counted on either Buzz or Lolly coming ashore with us. Just how I had imagined getting Veronica and me to the house and back to the ship, I couldn’t for the life of me remember. On film a quick cut would get us to the house and another would have us back on the