McNally's Folly by Lawrence Sanders, Vincent Lardo

rest.”
    “That’s very kind of you, Mother. And here’s Ms. Mulligan.”
    The woman entering the greenhouse was, I would guess, in her early forties, with auburn hair cut short, vivid blue eyes, a trim figure and a fine pair of legs her waterproof Top-Siders could not disguise. She did nothing to hide the freckles that dotted the bridge of her nose and most likely because she knew they were as fetching as her smile. “Hello. I’m Kate Mulligan. You’re Mrs. McNally, I presume.”
    “Yes, dear, I am. And this is my son, Archy.”
    “Charmed, I’m sure,” Kate said, taking first my mother’s hand and then mine. “Your garden is lovely, Mrs. McNally. Begonias are my favorite flower. That’s an Eyelash, isn’t it?”
    “Why yes, it is.” Mother beamed with joy.
    I didn’t know how much Kate Mulligan knew about horticulture but she sure knew how to please a prospective employer. She wasn’t doing bad with the employer’s son either.
    “I will leave you ladies to your labors,” I said, giving Mother a goodbye peck on her cheek. “I’m sure I’ll be seeing you again, Ms. Mulligan.”
    “Call me Kate, please, and I’ll be bold enough to call you Archy if I may. Are you going on holiday with your parents?”
    “Like you, Kate, duty prevents me from leaving the salt mines of Palm Beach in season. I’ll be right here.”
    “Then I know I’ll be seeing you again, Archy.”
    Hobo followed me to my Miata and I paused long enough to pat his head and whisper, “She ain’t a stew, Hobo, but man does not live by bread alone.” Hobo responded by putting his tail between his legs.
    I ran into Joe Anderson outside my father’s office. A retired postal worker well over seventy, Joe is the sole employee of our mailroom and, like me, the de facto reigning king of his turf. Need I add that Joe’s office is larger than mine?—but then so is your handkerchief.
    “How is Binky?” Joe asked, forcing me to procrastinate facing the guv’nor, which was fine with me.
    “Binky is well, Joe. I saw him last week and he asked for you.”
    Binky’s interest in Joe’s well-being is not strictly altruistic, something which pangs me, as I am the matchmaker who brought them together in what I had hoped would be a mutually beneficial relationship. My young friend, Binky Watrous, has been in the job market for the past twelve of his almost thirty years. Ursi’s comment notwithstanding, the pot has not been invented for the cover Binky Watrous has to offer.
    ’Twas a month before Christmas last when I secured Binky a temporary position at McNally & Son to assist Joe Anderson in coping with the holiday mail rush. Mrs. Trelawney took an instant liking to my friend more because Binky actually blushed at her risqué humor than his expertise in handling the company mail. In appreciation, Mrs. Trelawney promised Binky that when Joe retired for a second time, either by Joe’s own volition or that of God’s, Binky would be crowned king of the mailroom on Royal Palm Way.
    Not since Pip has anyone anticipated their future with the wonder, joy and trepidation that Mrs. Trelawney’s offer aroused in the heart and mind of Binky Watrous. In preparation for his date with destiny, Binky has devoted himself to the study of tomes with such riveting titles as The ABCs of Mail Room Procedure for Mini and Mega Corporations —as well as a morbid interest in Joe Anderson’s health which, bless him, is better than Binky’s.
    “Tell him I was asking for him,” Joe said, “and I put your mail in your office.”
    My mail consists of envelopes stuffed with dozens of tiny stick-on return address labels in return for which I am asked to make a generous donation to the unwed mothers of a variety of banana republic countries; catalogs offering everything the thinking detective needs, from bugging devices disguised as earrings to earrings capable of photographing unfaithful husbands being unfaithful; and for the junk-food addicted, the deplorable