twins but so alike one could only marvel at their oneness. They were, I guessed, in their early thirties. Both had deep brown eyes and brown hair with russet glints, cut quite short. They were dressed differently, one in a silk pantsuit, the other in short leather skirt and fringed buckskin jacket. I suspected they shared a common wardrobe; their physical proportions seemed identical.
They were chatting animatedly with each other and I wondered if twins ever became weary of their mirror images. They certainly didn’t seem bored at the moment, for they laughed frequently, occasionally leaned close to whisper, and once shook hands as if sealing a private pact. I thought them enormously attractive young ladies and hastened to join them.
“Welcome home!” I said heartily, giving them my Jumbocharmer smile for I felt they were mature enough to withstand it.
“Thank you,” they said in unison, and Pantsuit asked, “And who might you be?”
“I might be Ivan the Terrible,” I said, “but I am not. My name is Archy McNally, and I work for your father’s attorneys.”
“You’re a lawyer?”
“Not quite. More of a para-paralegal. And you are...?”
“Judith,” she said. “I think.” She turned to her twin. “Am I Judith, darling?”
“I thought you were this morning,” Leather Skirt said. “But now I’m not so sure. You may be Julia.”
“Which would make you Judith.”
“I suppose. But I can’t be certain. I don’t feel like Judith.”
Both looked at me with wide-eyed innocence. I realized this was a routine that amused them greatly and they used frequently to befuddle new acquaintances. They obviously had inherited their father’s quirky sense of humor.
“I think I have a solution to this difficult problem,” I said. “Suppose I address each of you as Mike. Won’t that make things a lot simpler?”
Both clapped their hands delightedly and gave me elfin grins.
“Well done,” Pantsuit said.
“Good show,” Leather Skirt said. “I love the idea of us both being Mike.”
Their voices were identical in pitch and timbre.
Pantsuit stared at me reflectively. “Archy McNally,” she repeated. “We’ve heard that name before. Are you a member of the Pelican Club?”
“I am indeed.”
“Peter has mentioned you. We’ve never been there, have we, Mike?”
“Never, Mike,” her sibling said. “Take us there to lunch, Archy.”
“I’ll be delighted. When?”
“Tomorrow. Is twelve-thirty okay?”
“Twelve-thirty is perfect.”
“How should we dress?” Leather Skirt asked.
“Informally. Laid-back. Funky. Whatever.”
“That’s cool,” Pantsuit said.
“You know how to find it?”
“We’ll ask Peter. Thank you for the invite, Archy.”
Mike #1 leaned forward suddenly to kiss me briefly on the lips. Her buss was sweet and tangy as a Vidalia onion. Ah-ha! Now, I reckoned, I’d be able to tell them apart. But then Mike #2 duplicated her sister’s action. Her kiss was sweet and tangy as a Vidalia onion.
Archibald McNally, the master criminologist, flummoxed again.
CHAPTER 7
G UESTS BEGAN LEAVING AN HOUR before midnight. I looked about for Binky Watrous and his Celtic knish but they had already departed. I decided it was time to make my adieus and sought the host to thank him for a pleasant evening. But Hiram was nowhere to be found and so I delivered my farewell to Yvonne Chrisling.
She was in a more relaxed mood than at our initial meeting. At least her handclasp was warm and she seemed reluctant to release me.
“Thank you so much,” I said. “It was a lovely party.”
“It was sweet of you to come,” she said. “I’m glad you had a good time and I hope you’ll visit again. Did you meet the twins?”
“I surely did.”
“And what did you think of them, Archy?”
“Very personable,” I said carefully.
She gave me a cryptic smile. “They’re not as scatterbrained as many people think. Quite the contrary.”
Then she turned away to exchange
They were chatting animatedly with each other and I wondered if twins ever became weary of their mirror images. They certainly didn’t seem bored at the moment, for they laughed frequently, occasionally leaned close to whisper, and once shook hands as if sealing a private pact. I thought them enormously attractive young ladies and hastened to join them.
“Welcome home!” I said heartily, giving them my Jumbocharmer smile for I felt they were mature enough to withstand it.
“Thank you,” they said in unison, and Pantsuit asked, “And who might you be?”
“I might be Ivan the Terrible,” I said, “but I am not. My name is Archy McNally, and I work for your father’s attorneys.”
“You’re a lawyer?”
“Not quite. More of a para-paralegal. And you are...?”
“Judith,” she said. “I think.” She turned to her twin. “Am I Judith, darling?”
“I thought you were this morning,” Leather Skirt said. “But now I’m not so sure. You may be Julia.”
“Which would make you Judith.”
“I suppose. But I can’t be certain. I don’t feel like Judith.”
Both looked at me with wide-eyed innocence. I realized this was a routine that amused them greatly and they used frequently to befuddle new acquaintances. They obviously had inherited their father’s quirky sense of humor.
“I think I have a solution to this difficult problem,” I said. “Suppose I address each of you as Mike. Won’t that make things a lot simpler?”
Both clapped their hands delightedly and gave me elfin grins.
“Well done,” Pantsuit said.
“Good show,” Leather Skirt said. “I love the idea of us both being Mike.”
Their voices were identical in pitch and timbre.
Pantsuit stared at me reflectively. “Archy McNally,” she repeated. “We’ve heard that name before. Are you a member of the Pelican Club?”
“I am indeed.”
“Peter has mentioned you. We’ve never been there, have we, Mike?”
“Never, Mike,” her sibling said. “Take us there to lunch, Archy.”
“I’ll be delighted. When?”
“Tomorrow. Is twelve-thirty okay?”
“Twelve-thirty is perfect.”
“How should we dress?” Leather Skirt asked.
“Informally. Laid-back. Funky. Whatever.”
“That’s cool,” Pantsuit said.
“You know how to find it?”
“We’ll ask Peter. Thank you for the invite, Archy.”
Mike #1 leaned forward suddenly to kiss me briefly on the lips. Her buss was sweet and tangy as a Vidalia onion. Ah-ha! Now, I reckoned, I’d be able to tell them apart. But then Mike #2 duplicated her sister’s action. Her kiss was sweet and tangy as a Vidalia onion.
Archibald McNally, the master criminologist, flummoxed again.
CHAPTER 7
G UESTS BEGAN LEAVING AN HOUR before midnight. I looked about for Binky Watrous and his Celtic knish but they had already departed. I decided it was time to make my adieus and sought the host to thank him for a pleasant evening. But Hiram was nowhere to be found and so I delivered my farewell to Yvonne Chrisling.
She was in a more relaxed mood than at our initial meeting. At least her handclasp was warm and she seemed reluctant to release me.
“Thank you so much,” I said. “It was a lovely party.”
“It was sweet of you to come,” she said. “I’m glad you had a good time and I hope you’ll visit again. Did you meet the twins?”
“I surely did.”
“And what did you think of them, Archy?”
“Very personable,” I said carefully.
She gave me a cryptic smile. “They’re not as scatterbrained as many people think. Quite the contrary.”
Then she turned away to exchange
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