Read Online McNally's Dare by Lawrence Sanders, Vincent Lardo - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Lawrence Sanders, Vincent Lardo
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expect, but from the ruby lips of Georgy girl. Gallo was her ex-lover who had forsaken her for the good life with a rich divorcée of advanced years whom I now suspected was none other than Vivian Emerson. Really! In Palm Beach in season one needs a dramatis personae to tell who’s who, but that’s what we have Lolly Spindrift for.
Driving past Mar-a-Lago, I thought of my lunch with Malcolm MacNiff, which, in turn, led to thoughts of the meeting I had just left with Dennis Darling. Odd, how all the names rattling around in my head on this enchanting evening, with the exception of Georgy girl, were present when Jeff Rodgers met his maker. Now I knew of a link, however tenuous, between the dead boy and one of Nifty’s guests, namely Lance Talbot; and between Joe Gallo, Vivian Emerson and Georgy. If one dug deep enough, would everyone at the MacNiff house yesterday afternoon emerge holding hands like paper dolls stretched the distance from the tennis courts to the pool?
Today saw the first time two clients had hired me to investigate the same person for different reasons. Nifty wanted me to prove that Lance Talbot was, or was not, Lance Talbot and, incidently, to learn what I could about his backyard murder. Denny wanted me to find out what the murdered boy had on Lance Talbot, not knowing that Lance Talbot might not be who he claimed to be.
Clearly, what I needed to learn were the elements and circumstances in which the crime was committed. In this instance, the number one element is, Why was Jeff killed? The leading circumstance is, Who was able to go from the tennis courts to the pool, without being missed or seen, to commit the dastardly deed?
I believed the answers would K two B’s with one S: solve Jeff’s murder and old Mrs. Talbot’s tantalizing riddle, “The king is dead.” The latter, I suddenly decided, would be the title of the case I would begin recording in my journal when I arrived home this evening, or, with a little bit of McNally luck, tomorrow morning.
Georgy girl lives in what was once the guest cottage of an antebellum mansion that has seen better days. Her old landlady, a recluse who is the sole occupant of the manor house, checks the traffic in the driveway leading to Georgy’s digs by peering surreptitiously from behind a beaded curtain. In the months I have been calling on Georgy, the old lady and I have devised a coded form of communication. She peeks through the beads and I beep the Miata’s horn in reply.
The first time I spent the night with Georgy, leaving in the early morning, I do believe the old biddy shook a fist at me from behind her beaded shield. In the weeks that followed she seems to have come to terms with the facts of life, or the facts of her tenant’s life, and we are once again on nonspeaking terms.
Georgy invited me to supper, which, given her cooking skills, is tantamount to playing Russian roulette with your digestive system. Georgy holds the “Fast Food Queen of Florida” title and has been short-listed to take the world title faster than you can nuke a weenie in your microwave.
When I entered the cottage she was at the stove in her cute galley kitchen emptying a can of tuna into a pot of cooked noodles. Turning, she lovingly greeted me with, “I hope that’s not an alligator shirt.”
“I hope that’s not a tuna ’n’ noodle casserole.”
“What you see is what you get,” she assured me.
What I saw was a blond creature in white shorts and T-shirt that allowed for an inch or two of bare midriff. When, as now, Georgy putters around the cottage barefoot, she reminds me of the comic strip character Daisy Mae, whose charms were lost on Lil’ Abner. Georgy’s allure is not lost on Lil’ Archy.
Coming behind her I parted the blond tresses like a curtain and kissed the back of her neck. She smelled of jasmine-scented soap and tuna fish. “Let me take you away from all this,” I whispered into her ear.
“How far?” she wanted to know.
“The
Driving past Mar-a-Lago, I thought of my lunch with Malcolm MacNiff, which, in turn, led to thoughts of the meeting I had just left with Dennis Darling. Odd, how all the names rattling around in my head on this enchanting evening, with the exception of Georgy girl, were present when Jeff Rodgers met his maker. Now I knew of a link, however tenuous, between the dead boy and one of Nifty’s guests, namely Lance Talbot; and between Joe Gallo, Vivian Emerson and Georgy. If one dug deep enough, would everyone at the MacNiff house yesterday afternoon emerge holding hands like paper dolls stretched the distance from the tennis courts to the pool?
Today saw the first time two clients had hired me to investigate the same person for different reasons. Nifty wanted me to prove that Lance Talbot was, or was not, Lance Talbot and, incidently, to learn what I could about his backyard murder. Denny wanted me to find out what the murdered boy had on Lance Talbot, not knowing that Lance Talbot might not be who he claimed to be.
Clearly, what I needed to learn were the elements and circumstances in which the crime was committed. In this instance, the number one element is, Why was Jeff killed? The leading circumstance is, Who was able to go from the tennis courts to the pool, without being missed or seen, to commit the dastardly deed?
I believed the answers would K two B’s with one S: solve Jeff’s murder and old Mrs. Talbot’s tantalizing riddle, “The king is dead.” The latter, I suddenly decided, would be the title of the case I would begin recording in my journal when I arrived home this evening, or, with a little bit of McNally luck, tomorrow morning.
Georgy girl lives in what was once the guest cottage of an antebellum mansion that has seen better days. Her old landlady, a recluse who is the sole occupant of the manor house, checks the traffic in the driveway leading to Georgy’s digs by peering surreptitiously from behind a beaded curtain. In the months I have been calling on Georgy, the old lady and I have devised a coded form of communication. She peeks through the beads and I beep the Miata’s horn in reply.
The first time I spent the night with Georgy, leaving in the early morning, I do believe the old biddy shook a fist at me from behind her beaded shield. In the weeks that followed she seems to have come to terms with the facts of life, or the facts of her tenant’s life, and we are once again on nonspeaking terms.
Georgy invited me to supper, which, given her cooking skills, is tantamount to playing Russian roulette with your digestive system. Georgy holds the “Fast Food Queen of Florida” title and has been short-listed to take the world title faster than you can nuke a weenie in your microwave.
When I entered the cottage she was at the stove in her cute galley kitchen emptying a can of tuna into a pot of cooked noodles. Turning, she lovingly greeted me with, “I hope that’s not an alligator shirt.”
“I hope that’s not a tuna ’n’ noodle casserole.”
“What you see is what you get,” she assured me.
What I saw was a blond creature in white shorts and T-shirt that allowed for an inch or two of bare midriff. When, as now, Georgy putters around the cottage barefoot, she reminds me of the comic strip character Daisy Mae, whose charms were lost on Lil’ Abner. Georgy’s allure is not lost on Lil’ Archy.
Coming behind her I parted the blond tresses like a curtain and kissed the back of her neck. She smelled of jasmine-scented soap and tuna fish. “Let me take you away from all this,” I whispered into her ear.
“How far?” she wanted to know.
“The
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