McNally's Folly Read Online Free Page B

Jamie?”
    “Mrs. Ventura’s gardener.”
    “Who’s Mrs. Ventura, Jamie?”
    “The lady who lost the diamond clip that Ouspenskaya found.”
    As you can see, talking to Jamie Olson is like playing a one-armed bandit. You have to feed it a lot to get back very little. Having been down this road before, I kept priming the pump.
    “I hear Ouspenskaya is available for private séances.”
    “Uh-huh.”
    “Any idea if anyone is having one in the immediate future?”
    “Uh-huh.”
    “Who?”
    “Roland is preparing for one this evening.”
    “Who’s Roland, Jamie?”
    “The Tremaines’ butler.”
    Eureka!
    I left Jamie contemplating his cuppa and went up to my suite, which is a grandiloquent word for a small sitting room, a smaller bedroom and a bathroom that makes the other two look spacious. Here I dialed the residence of Vance Tremaine. (Yes, I still have a rotary telephone, as well as an authentic Mickey Mouse wristwatch, a Royal portable typewriter and a fountain pen—a gold Mont Blanc and don’t you forget it.)
    I had no qualms about intruding myself upon the Tremaines because Vance owed me big. His wife was the former Penelope Brightworth, whose father made zillions in the fast food business. The Tremaines were old guard and a good four generations removed from the Tremaine who filled up the family coffers. Unfortunately, the last two generations depleted the candy store, leaving poor Vance open to a hostile takeover and enabling Penelope to buy—excuse me, marry—Vance.
    The couple moved into a “cottage” on Ocean Boulevard and stocked it with his-and-hers Rolls Royces, a fifty-two-foot Hatteras and three live-in servants. The only clouds on this marital horizon were in the shape of pretty young ladies in thong bikinis. Vance couldn’t keep his mind off them and didn’t confine his adulterous ways to impure thoughts. What Vance saw is what Vance got. His wife finally gave him the ultimate ultimatum, “One more bimbo, buster, and you’ll be living in Pompano, driving a Chevy and traversing Lake Worth with the aid of two oars.”
    Vance toed the line for an entire week and then ran into a bit of trouble in a dive in West Palm called Bar Anticipation. The bit of trouble began to make ugly noises and Archy saved Vance from a fate worse than death—poverty.
    The butler, Roland, told me that Mr. Tremaine was at his club. I called the Bath and Tennis and had Tremaine paged. “Archy?” he said when he came on the line, sounding surprised.
    “Who were you expecting?” I asked.
    “Not you.”
    Hurt but determined, I asked him if it were true that Serge Ouspenskaya was going to find Judge Crater at the Tremaine digs this evening. After a pause, Tremaine said, “You know, Archy, some wise guy once said that there was nothing known to man faster than the speed of light. He was wrong. The gossip mill up and down Ocean Boulevard makes the speed of light look lethargic. What’s your interest?”
    “Curiosity. I’d like to attend.”
    “No matter where you step you always come up smelling like Chanel Number Five. We just learned that Russell Fitzwilliams came down with the flu—it’s going around—and we need an extra man to partner Mrs. Fitzwilliams. Ouspenskaya likes an odd number at the table, him being the odd man out, so the group has to be an even number. We sit at ten and all we’re serving is drinks, so eat before you come.”
    “Your generosity, Vance, has me all choked up. I’ll be there.”
    “By the way, do you know the Fitzwilliamses’ girl?” he asked.
    “Elizabeth, known locally as Fitz. We’ve met,” I informed him.
    “She’s a beauty. Do you know if she goes for older men?”
    “To her, Vance, thirty would be old, and I assume you’re going to be fifty, once again, this year.”
    “You really know how to hurt a guy, Archy.”
    “It’s a gift, like being double-jointed or able to play the piano by ear. Ta ta, till then.”
    I like to swim at least two miles a day. Not out