exceedingly dull,” I told him. “I wouldn’t want to bore you—and naturally I must respect client confidentiality.”
It was a mild reprimand and he accepted it.
“Naturally,” he said, and we smiled at each other.
Wine finished, we walked down the long stairway to the ground level.
“I’ll leave you here,” he said. “I want to look in at Sarah. Jason will see you out.”
“Thank you for a lovely luncheon,” I said, shaking his proffered hand. “And for letting me view those incredible models. Please give my best wishes to your wife and my hopes for her speedy and complete recovery.”
“We all hope for that,” he said, but there was little hope in his voice. “Archy, you’re good company. I look forward to seeing you again.”
He left me and the archaic majordomo appeared out of nowhere bearing my snazzy pink panama with a snake-skin band.
“Thank you, Jason,” I said. “It was a super luncheon.”
“Thank you, sir,” he quavered. “I am happy you enjoyed it.”
I looked around that magnificent entrance hall, a shining vault that seemed to go on forever.
“What a wonderful home,” I marveled.
“It was,” he said in such a low voice I could hardly hear him. But that’s what he said: “It was.” Of course I thought he was referring to Mrs. Whitcomb’s illness.
I drove slowly back to the McNally Building, pausing en route at a florist’s shop to have a cheerful arrangement of mums delivered to Mrs. Sarah with a note of thanks. The Whitcombs were, I knew, people who honored traditional etiquette, mailed birthday and Christmas cards, and never failed to visit sick friends. My parents are similar types. I, regrettably, am not.
I hadn’t been at my desk more than five minutes when Binky Watrous phoned.
“You’ll never guess what happened to me,” he burbled.
“You’re enceinte?” I inquired.
“Better! Mitzi Whitcomb called and wants to see me tonight. Her lesser half is going down to Miami on business and she’s all by her lonesome. Wants me to buy her a pizza and then we’ll go dancing. How about that!”
“Sounds like you’ve made a conquest, laddie,” I said. “Have fun but promise me one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Not a word to Mitzi about our investigation of the Whitcomb Funeral Homes. Is that understood?”
“Of course.”
“Not one single word,” I warned him. “The lady may try to extract information in a friendly, offhand way, but you know nothing.”
“About what?” he said.
I sighed. I had feared he would be a trial; he was rapidly becoming an inquisition. “About anything,” I told him. “Just chat her up and keep the conversation frothy and inconsequential. Do your birdcalls for her.”
“Oh yeah!” he said happily. “I’ve got a new one—the yellow-bellied sapsucker.”
“That should enchant her,” I assured him. “And Binky, in the most casual way possible you might inquire what business is taking Oliver to Miami tonight. You understand?”
“Oh sure. I’ll ask her.”
“Don’t ask her. Say something similar to ‘Your husband must be a very busy man, driving to Miami at night.’ And then wait for her reaction.”
“I get it,” he said. “You want me to be subtle.”
“Yes, Binky, I want you to be subtle—right after you imitate the call of a yellow-bellied sapsucker.”
“I can do it,” he said eagerly. “I’ll get the goods on Oliver.”
“Call me tomorrow,” I said, stifling a groan, “and tell me how you made out.”
I hung up and put my head in my hands. He was going to commit a monumental balls-up, I just knew it. What concerned me most was not that Binky might reveal to Mitzi and Oliver Whitcomb that they were subjects of an inquiry by McNally & Son, but that my father might learn I was employing a certified bedlamite in one of my discreet inquiries.
I could easily envision his reaction: both tangled eyebrow. twitched aloft, the bristly mustache drooping, and VC get a stare that shared
It was a mild reprimand and he accepted it.
“Naturally,” he said, and we smiled at each other.
Wine finished, we walked down the long stairway to the ground level.
“I’ll leave you here,” he said. “I want to look in at Sarah. Jason will see you out.”
“Thank you for a lovely luncheon,” I said, shaking his proffered hand. “And for letting me view those incredible models. Please give my best wishes to your wife and my hopes for her speedy and complete recovery.”
“We all hope for that,” he said, but there was little hope in his voice. “Archy, you’re good company. I look forward to seeing you again.”
He left me and the archaic majordomo appeared out of nowhere bearing my snazzy pink panama with a snake-skin band.
“Thank you, Jason,” I said. “It was a super luncheon.”
“Thank you, sir,” he quavered. “I am happy you enjoyed it.”
I looked around that magnificent entrance hall, a shining vault that seemed to go on forever.
“What a wonderful home,” I marveled.
“It was,” he said in such a low voice I could hardly hear him. But that’s what he said: “It was.” Of course I thought he was referring to Mrs. Whitcomb’s illness.
I drove slowly back to the McNally Building, pausing en route at a florist’s shop to have a cheerful arrangement of mums delivered to Mrs. Sarah with a note of thanks. The Whitcombs were, I knew, people who honored traditional etiquette, mailed birthday and Christmas cards, and never failed to visit sick friends. My parents are similar types. I, regrettably, am not.
I hadn’t been at my desk more than five minutes when Binky Watrous phoned.
“You’ll never guess what happened to me,” he burbled.
“You’re enceinte?” I inquired.
“Better! Mitzi Whitcomb called and wants to see me tonight. Her lesser half is going down to Miami on business and she’s all by her lonesome. Wants me to buy her a pizza and then we’ll go dancing. How about that!”
“Sounds like you’ve made a conquest, laddie,” I said. “Have fun but promise me one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Not a word to Mitzi about our investigation of the Whitcomb Funeral Homes. Is that understood?”
“Of course.”
“Not one single word,” I warned him. “The lady may try to extract information in a friendly, offhand way, but you know nothing.”
“About what?” he said.
I sighed. I had feared he would be a trial; he was rapidly becoming an inquisition. “About anything,” I told him. “Just chat her up and keep the conversation frothy and inconsequential. Do your birdcalls for her.”
“Oh yeah!” he said happily. “I’ve got a new one—the yellow-bellied sapsucker.”
“That should enchant her,” I assured him. “And Binky, in the most casual way possible you might inquire what business is taking Oliver to Miami tonight. You understand?”
“Oh sure. I’ll ask her.”
“Don’t ask her. Say something similar to ‘Your husband must be a very busy man, driving to Miami at night.’ And then wait for her reaction.”
“I get it,” he said. “You want me to be subtle.”
“Yes, Binky, I want you to be subtle—right after you imitate the call of a yellow-bellied sapsucker.”
“I can do it,” he said eagerly. “I’ll get the goods on Oliver.”
“Call me tomorrow,” I said, stifling a groan, “and tell me how you made out.”
I hung up and put my head in my hands. He was going to commit a monumental balls-up, I just knew it. What concerned me most was not that Binky might reveal to Mitzi and Oliver Whitcomb that they were subjects of an inquiry by McNally & Son, but that my father might learn I was employing a certified bedlamite in one of my discreet inquiries.
I could easily envision his reaction: both tangled eyebrow. twitched aloft, the bristly mustache drooping, and VC get a stare that shared
Similar Books
