McNally's Folly by Lawrence Sanders, Vincent Lardo Page A

speaking to Mrs. Ventura?”
    “No, I have not. Why? Do you find my dream pertinent? Is the lovely Mrs. Ventura involved?”
    He was too clever to be lying. But how did he do it? And had I given away my hand by immediately bringing Hanna Ventura into the picture? Most likely. Serge Ouspenskaya was proving himself more adroit than Archy. “I was merely curious,” I said, “because I paid a call on Mrs. Ventura yesterday.” That was as much as he was going to get out of me.
    “You questioned her about her diamond clip, I presume.”
    “We spoke of many things, sir. One of them being a rumor that Desdemona Darling has put it out that you told me something no one could possibly know—with the exception of Desdemona Darling, to be sure.”
    “Yes. Mrs. Holmes spoke to me about it the very next day.”
    Mrs. Holmes? How formal. “I would like to know what it was that you said, sir.”
    After a long pause he replied, “I would rather she told you, Mr. McNally.”
    “Why, sir?”
    Another pause. “Y is a crooked letter, Mr. McNally.”
    “A child’s response,” I accused.
    “Out of the mouths of babes, Mr. McNally. Out of the mouths of babes. Ask Mrs. Holmes when you see her this afternoon. Three, is it? She’ll tell you.”
    The guy was either tapping my phone or camping out in my back pocket. Or was he for real?

EIGHT
    A N UNFAMILIAR FACE OPENED the door to me at the Horowitz mansion. “Mr. McNally?”
    “That’s me.”
    “You’re expected, sir. This way, please.”
    “Where’s Mrs. Marsden?” I asked, following her across an entrance hall whose square footage was on par with the dimensions of a cozy starter house in Suburbia, USA. Mrs. Marsden was Lady C’s regular housekeeper of long standing.
    “Visiting her daughter, sir. I will be attending Lady Cynthia until Mrs. Marsden’s return.”
    I thought of Hanna Ventura’s lament on the transient aspect of help in Palm Beach and concluded that no one was above its bitter sting. My hostess and her friend were in the drawing room seated in brocade wing chairs and looking for all the world like dowager empresses awaiting a gallant knight to deliver them from ennui. Guess who answered the call?
    “You’re late,” Lady C scolded as I entered their presence.
    Lady Cynthia Horowitz is rude to me only when she is enjoying the company of a live-in protégé. The degree of her rudeness depends on the virility of her mate. Judging from her tone this afternoon, I would rate Buzz a seven out of ten. When the lady is footloose and on the make, I am the object of her affection.
    “It’s just three,” I countered.
    “I was early,” Desdemona Darling intervened. “You are Archy McNally. I like a man who’s not timid about wearing lavender shoes. It says he’s all male. The gay men in Hollywood wear army boots. I’m Desdemona Darling.”
    The Golden Girl had retained her beautiful face, if not her figure. Her hair was as white as snow, her eyes a vivid blue, her complexion a flawless pink and, thanks to the excess weight, as smooth as fine porcelain. She wore a black muumuu which covered her from neck to ankle and no doubt concealed a multitude of sins. I don’t like to admit it but, as a perennial fan of the silver screen, I was awed just being in the same room with her.
    Lady C, on the other hand, had retained her perfect figure as well as her ugly face. Her droopy nose and the upward tilt of her chin always seemed in danger of meeting to render her speechless. Both women, I recalled, had had six husbands each, turning marriage into a cottage industry from which they were both still drawing handsome dividends.
    As I compared these septuagenarians of fame and fortune, and for reasons best known to Herr Freud, I could not help thinking of an obscure Tennessee Williams short story entitled “The Resemblance Between a Violin Case and a Coffin”.
    “Pull up a chair, lad,” Lady C ordered, rather than invited. “I’m not offering drinks. It’s too early.