tunnel of love with Thelma Todd. I awoke Sunday morn saddened my pledge of allegiance to Connie had been so quickly betrayed in my sleep. I prayed it did not presage infidelities I might commit while fully awake.
I accompanied my parents to church, feeling my moral fiber needed a bit of starching. But the sermon was devoted to the biblical dictum “The race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong,” and I spent the remainder of the service trying to recall the name of the sportswriter who commented, “Maybe not but that’s the way to bet.”
CHAPTER 8
I DRESSED WITH SPECIAL care on Monday morning, wishing to impress Mrs. Edythe Westmore with my sincerity. I admit the black tropical worsted suit and white shirt I donned gave me the look of a mortician at work but I compensated for my sober appearance by wearing silk briefs decorated with gamboling rabbits. By their underwear ye shall know them.
My first destination was the McNally Building, merely to see if any correspondence or messages had been placed in my office during my absence. I expected nothing of import but found a note from the McNally & Son receptionist stating Mr. Sydney Smythe of Windsor Antiques had phoned late Friday afternoon and requested I return his call. I stuffed the message into my jacket pocket, deciding to phone the moldering fop after lunch. Then I reclaimed the Miata from our underground garage and headed back to Ocean Boulevard.
Mrs. Westmore’s enthusiasm for her “beautiful home” was not entirely braggadocio. At least I found the exterior attractive and the landscaping impressive. The house and three-car garage, designed in what is called “Bermuda style,” were set on a closely shaven lawn divided by a brick driveway and slated walks. In the background, framing the estate, was a ficus hedge so high it would require a ladder to trim the top.
I parked at one side of the turnaround, disembarked, and took a second look around. The selection of trees was striking: orchid, royal poinciana and royal palm, sea grape, and one magnificent banyan that must have been a zillion years old. All showy, you’ll note. Mrs. Westmore was obviously not a woman who would be content with a few scraggly palmettos.
I spotted another structure away from the main residence and almost hidden in the foliage. It was too small for a guest house and too large for a storage shed. It appeared to be constructed of weathered planks from old barns, in sharp contrast to the gleaming white of the other buildings. I couldn’t even guess its purpose and resolved to ask during the “grand tour” the hostess had promised.
The front door bell was set in the umbilicus of a half-naked brass Venus—apparently the owner’s attempt at whimsy. I thought it barbarous but forced myself to press the belly button. The door was opened immediately by a scrawny, stoop-shouldered gent wearing a gray alpaca jacket and shiny navy serge trousers. His features had such a lugubrious cast I knew he had to be Algernon Canfield, the houseman desperately seeking another job.
“I’m Archy McNally,” I started. “Mrs. Westmore is—”
“Expecting you,” he completed my statement in his lachrymose voice. “This way please, sir.”
I followed him down a hallway covered with flocked wallpaper in a cabbage rose pattern that wasn’t as garish as it may sound. We came to opened double doors of what was obviously the Florida room. The houseman departed speedily as Mrs. Edythe Westmore came forward, holding Out both hands, fleshy face creased in a welcoming smile. Connie had been right; she was a battleship.
“Archy McNally!” she boomed. “How nice to see you again!”
“My pleasure, Mrs. Westmore,” I said, and found my two hands grasped separately in hers. Even worse, she drew me near, tilted her massive head, and offered a slack cheek and waited. I obediently bestowed the lightest and briefest of light, brief kisses. It was like bussing a down pillow.
“Oh, do call
I accompanied my parents to church, feeling my moral fiber needed a bit of starching. But the sermon was devoted to the biblical dictum “The race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong,” and I spent the remainder of the service trying to recall the name of the sportswriter who commented, “Maybe not but that’s the way to bet.”
CHAPTER 8
I DRESSED WITH SPECIAL care on Monday morning, wishing to impress Mrs. Edythe Westmore with my sincerity. I admit the black tropical worsted suit and white shirt I donned gave me the look of a mortician at work but I compensated for my sober appearance by wearing silk briefs decorated with gamboling rabbits. By their underwear ye shall know them.
My first destination was the McNally Building, merely to see if any correspondence or messages had been placed in my office during my absence. I expected nothing of import but found a note from the McNally & Son receptionist stating Mr. Sydney Smythe of Windsor Antiques had phoned late Friday afternoon and requested I return his call. I stuffed the message into my jacket pocket, deciding to phone the moldering fop after lunch. Then I reclaimed the Miata from our underground garage and headed back to Ocean Boulevard.
Mrs. Westmore’s enthusiasm for her “beautiful home” was not entirely braggadocio. At least I found the exterior attractive and the landscaping impressive. The house and three-car garage, designed in what is called “Bermuda style,” were set on a closely shaven lawn divided by a brick driveway and slated walks. In the background, framing the estate, was a ficus hedge so high it would require a ladder to trim the top.
I parked at one side of the turnaround, disembarked, and took a second look around. The selection of trees was striking: orchid, royal poinciana and royal palm, sea grape, and one magnificent banyan that must have been a zillion years old. All showy, you’ll note. Mrs. Westmore was obviously not a woman who would be content with a few scraggly palmettos.
I spotted another structure away from the main residence and almost hidden in the foliage. It was too small for a guest house and too large for a storage shed. It appeared to be constructed of weathered planks from old barns, in sharp contrast to the gleaming white of the other buildings. I couldn’t even guess its purpose and resolved to ask during the “grand tour” the hostess had promised.
The front door bell was set in the umbilicus of a half-naked brass Venus—apparently the owner’s attempt at whimsy. I thought it barbarous but forced myself to press the belly button. The door was opened immediately by a scrawny, stoop-shouldered gent wearing a gray alpaca jacket and shiny navy serge trousers. His features had such a lugubrious cast I knew he had to be Algernon Canfield, the houseman desperately seeking another job.
“I’m Archy McNally,” I started. “Mrs. Westmore is—”
“Expecting you,” he completed my statement in his lachrymose voice. “This way please, sir.”
I followed him down a hallway covered with flocked wallpaper in a cabbage rose pattern that wasn’t as garish as it may sound. We came to opened double doors of what was obviously the Florida room. The houseman departed speedily as Mrs. Edythe Westmore came forward, holding Out both hands, fleshy face creased in a welcoming smile. Connie had been right; she was a battleship.
“Archy McNally!” she boomed. “How nice to see you again!”
“My pleasure, Mrs. Westmore,” I said, and found my two hands grasped separately in hers. Even worse, she drew me near, tilted her massive head, and offered a slack cheek and waited. I obediently bestowed the lightest and briefest of light, brief kisses. It was like bussing a down pillow.
“Oh, do call
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