McNally's Bluff by Lawrence Sanders, Vincent Lardo

the mammy of that other green-eyed O’Hara girl so wisely lectured, leaving me no choice but to commute between the two.
    Of late I find myself spending more time in the cottage than the manse. It began, I remember, by bringing in a change of shorts and socks, plus a toothbrush and razor, in order to start the day without telltale signs of having camped out, so to speak. But how tempus fugit when you’re having fun. Now, I seem to have half my wardrobe there, commandeering the lion’s share of drawer and closet space, both of which were rather sparse to begin with. It’s cozy, to say the least.
    That both Connie Garcia and I have taken up with partners some decade younger than ourselves I ascribe more to kismet than the ruthless game of brinkmanship too often engaged in by parted lovers. Connie and I enjoyed a long, open relationship wherein I was allowed to cheat and she wasn’t. Being an unabashed chauvinist I found the arrangement smashing, as our English cousins call having fun.
    When Connie began talking about her biological clock and playing Golden Oldies like Apple Blossom Time by the sisters Andrew whenever I came to dinner, I began to cheat in earnest. It was then that I tripped over a corpse in a tacky motel and got on Lieutenant Georgia O’Hara’s most wanted list. Needless to say, I surrendered.
    Connie, visiting one of her five thousand cousins in Miami, attached herself to the gyrating hips of Alejandro Gomez y Zapata on a conga line and appears to be having trouble letting go. As a clever tunesmith put it, The music stopped, but they kept on dancing. That I have found solace in a pretty, younger woman is, I feel, commendable. That Connie takes comfort in the arms of a handsome, younger man, I find appalling, and tell her so every chance I get. But that’s kismet, not sour grapes.
    The Juno cottage is actually the guest house of a decaying antebellum mansion, Georgy’s landlady being Annabel Lee Hudson, an ancient recluse who came of age during the last big conflict and saw a German spy behind every palm tree. When that war ended she scarcely had a moment’s peace before the atom bomb and the red menace replaced the Germans in her nightmares. When Russia gave up sharing in favor of competing, Annabel Lee got some shuteye.
    Then along came the terrorists to keep her on constant vigil behind her beaded curtains, scrutinizing the long driveway leading to the cottage, ready to sound the alarm should anyone in a turban drive past. Annabel Lee has grown used to my red Miata and, of course, the caravan of fast-food delivery vans that are Georgy girl’s supply line.
    Gaining entrance with my very own key I saw that Georgy had left a light on for me in the parlor, or had forgotten to switch off the lamp before retiring. I closed it and felt my way to the bedroom which, given the size of the cottage, is impossible to miss, and began undressing in the dark. I have always slept in half pajamas, the top actually, but Georgy has bought me a nightshirt that is a T-shirt that comes to the knees. I find it rather comfortable except for the fact that the gesture is more the offering of a wife than a lover. This scares me.
    Georgy sleeps in a variety of pastel-colored shorty nightgowns with her blonde hair in two pigtails. The overall effect is rather startling and the reason I keep transporting more and more of my belongings from manse to cottage. Tonight’s frilly gown was pink and I saw it stir as I put on my nightshirt and took down my briefs.
    “You always take off your shorts after you put on your nightshirt,” Georgy observed.
    “If I knew you were watching I would have reversed the process. I thought you were asleep.”
    “I heard your car come up the drive,” she said, raising her lovely head from the pillow and modestly bringing the bedsheet to her chin. Georgy is so fair she seems to glow in the dark like an apparition that might fade with the dawn, but I knew the morning sun would only serve to make the