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three-piece cheviot suits and to whom verbosity was a way of life was incapable of passion, legitimate or illicit. It was obvious that I had underestimated Griswold Three—and probably all the other denizens of the Chez Forsythe as well.
    I went to bed that night resolved to practice and exhibit more humility in my relations with others. But I knew in my heart of hearts that this noble resolution, like so many I had made in the past, was doomed to ignominious failure.

7
    T HE RAIN HAD STOPPED by Sunday morning but the sky still had the color and texture of a Pittsburgh sidewalk. I confess I am somewhat phobic about the weather; when the sun doesn’t shine I don’t either. But my spirits were boosted when I breakfasted with my parents in the dining room. Ursi Olson served us small smoked ham steaks with little yam cubes in a dark molasses sauce. I could almost feel the McNally corpuscles perk up and move onto the dance floor for a merry gavotte.
    Mother and father departed for church, and I phoned Connie Garcia. She was in a laid-back Sunday morning mood and didn’t seem inclined to make a definite date for lunch or dinner.
    “Did you see the paper, Archy?” she asked.
    “Not yet.”
    “Lolly Spindrift says something is going on at the Forsythe home. He says the police were called.”
    “Good heavens,” I said. “I wonder what it could be.”
    “I thought you might know,” she said. “You’ve been asking a lot of questions about that family lately.”
    “Well, they are our clients, you know. Perhaps I’ll take a run up there and see if they require assistance. I’ll call you this afternoon, Connie, and maybe we can meet later.”
    “Sounds good,” she said. “I’ll try to get my act together by then. Archy, if you learn anything spicy at the Forsythes’, will you tell me?”
    “Don’t I always?”
    “No,” she said.
    We hung up and I meditated, not for the first time, on my romance with that dishy young woman. I had a great affection for her, no doubt about it, but my tender attachment did not prevent my being unfaithful when an opportunity occurred. I could only conclude that infidelity was part of my genetic code, like snoring, and I must learn to live with it. I could only hope that Connie would as well.
    I donned a blue nylon jacket, clapped on a white leather cap, and ventured out into a muggy world. I spun the Miata northward along Ocean Boulevard and en route I spotted, coming in the opposite direction, the big, boxy Rolls-Royce belonging to Griswold Forsythe II. I don’t know what model it was, but it was aged and seemed high enough to allow a formally attired gentleman to enter without removing his topper.
    It was proceeding at a sedate pace and I was able to note that Griswold III, the famous nude photo fiend, was driving while his mother, father, and sister occupied the rear. The family was on its way to church, I reckoned, which gave me the chance of chatting up the stay-at-homes without interference.
    I encountered, on the front lawn of the Forsythe estate, a blocky servitor clad in faded overalls and sporting a magnificent walrus mustache. He was raking the grounds of palm fronds and other arboreal debris blown down by the previous day’s gusty winds. Assisting him in his labors was my new friend, Lucy, who was striving mightily but futilely to stuff a very large pine branch into a very small plastic garbage bag.
    “Hi, Lucy,” I called.
    “Hi, Archy,” she sang out. “Look what the storm did.”
    “I know,” I said. “But everything will dry out eventually.”
    The gardener glanced at me and tipped his feed-lot cap.
    “Good morning,” I said to him. “My name is Archibald McNally, a friend of the Forsythes. You’re Rufino Diaz?”
    “Thass right,” he said, surprised I knew his name. “I take care of the outside.”
    “Much damage?”
    “Not too bad,” he said. “We lost some ficus, and two new orchid trees I had just planted got blown over. But I stuck them back