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Authors: Lawrence Sanders, Vincent Lardo
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clutching the English Ovals in my jacket pocket. I had smoked one at Ta-Boo’ with Fitz last night and a second while writing in my journal before bed. I refrained from lighting one now but found no solace in my restraint. Sofia expelled a long stream of smoke along with the words, “I never saw him.”
I had no choice now but to ask her what I had come to learn. “What do you know about the psychic Serge Ouspenskaya?” Sofia’s eyeballs, huge behind the thick lenses of her glasses, widened wide enough to tell me she had immediately connected Richard Holmes’s visit to the psychic. I knew she would, but I also knew she would heed my warning and forget my query as she had promised to forget Holmes’s visit. Sofia knew when to ante up and when to fold her hand.
“I hear he’s the current favorite of the ladies who lunch.”
“Anything else?”
“That’s all I know,” she said. “That kind of thing is not my cup of tea, love. I deal in the here and now.” With a wave of her cigarette she quoted, “ ‘Yesterday is a memory, gone for good forever / while tomorrow is a guess / what is real is what is here and now / and here and now is all that we possess.’ ”
“Nicely put,” I complimented, “and here and now I would like you to put your bloodhound instincts on the trail of Serge Ouspenskaya and let me know what you come up with, like where he came from and, more important, quo vadis .”
Sofia shrugged. “I would imagine he got his start as a traveling carny fortune-teller and he’s not going anyplace as long as the ladies who lunch keep him on their menu.”
“Never underestimate a man with the conceit of a cat burglar who walked off with the jewel in the crown—and is ready to bargain for its return. I met him last night.”
“So I heard,” Sofia said. “Lolly Pops? Good grief, Archy.”
“Who did you hear it from? Mrs. Trelawney?”
“No. From Binky. He called this morning.”
When I get my hands on Binky Watrous I am fairly certain I will strangle him. “Is there anyone Binky hasn’t called?”
“I doubt it. He keeps in close touch with the staff. He begins by asking how I am and ends with wanting to know if Joe is showing any signs of shortness of breath when he brings in the mail.”
“If I have my way Joe Anderson, along with the rest of the world, will outlive Binky Watrous.”
Sofia smiled, recalling no doubt the days when Binky brought in her mail. “He’s a good boy, Archy.” Binky and his doe eyes inspire women to talk such gibberish. Older women, that is. Binky doesn’t have much luck with his contemporaries of the opposite sex.
Relegating Binky to a list labeled extermination, I asked our librarian, “Another favor, Sofia, if I may?”
“You may.”
“What do you know about a Mrs. Ventura?”
“The lady who almost gave her diamond clip to the Goodwill people. Can you imagine the look on the face of the lucky recipient if she had been handed Mrs. Ventura’s slightly used frock?”
“I see that story has made the rounds of polite society.”
“It has made the newspapers, thanks to Lolly Spindrift,” Sofia announced.
“Lolly seems to have taken a shine to Ouspenskaya and I doubt if the psychic is Lolly’s type.”
“Buzz Carr is more Lolly’s type and I hear, by the by, that Phil Meecham is furious with Lady Cynthia....”
I held up my hand like a policeman at a school crossing. “Enough, Sofia.” The fancies and foibles of the Palm Beach rich interest me only when they are relevant to one of my cases which, unfortunately, is almost always. “What can you tell me about Mrs. Ventura,” I asked the eyes and ears of McNally & Son.
“For the record, she’s the second Mrs. Ventura. The first died a few years back and Mr. Ventura, James I believe is his name, married the current Mrs. Ventura, Hanna, before a respectable period of mourning.”
“How long is respectable?”
“A year, usually, but six months is the absolute minimum.”
“And
I had no choice now but to ask her what I had come to learn. “What do you know about the psychic Serge Ouspenskaya?” Sofia’s eyeballs, huge behind the thick lenses of her glasses, widened wide enough to tell me she had immediately connected Richard Holmes’s visit to the psychic. I knew she would, but I also knew she would heed my warning and forget my query as she had promised to forget Holmes’s visit. Sofia knew when to ante up and when to fold her hand.
“I hear he’s the current favorite of the ladies who lunch.”
“Anything else?”
“That’s all I know,” she said. “That kind of thing is not my cup of tea, love. I deal in the here and now.” With a wave of her cigarette she quoted, “ ‘Yesterday is a memory, gone for good forever / while tomorrow is a guess / what is real is what is here and now / and here and now is all that we possess.’ ”
“Nicely put,” I complimented, “and here and now I would like you to put your bloodhound instincts on the trail of Serge Ouspenskaya and let me know what you come up with, like where he came from and, more important, quo vadis .”
Sofia shrugged. “I would imagine he got his start as a traveling carny fortune-teller and he’s not going anyplace as long as the ladies who lunch keep him on their menu.”
“Never underestimate a man with the conceit of a cat burglar who walked off with the jewel in the crown—and is ready to bargain for its return. I met him last night.”
“So I heard,” Sofia said. “Lolly Pops? Good grief, Archy.”
“Who did you hear it from? Mrs. Trelawney?”
“No. From Binky. He called this morning.”
When I get my hands on Binky Watrous I am fairly certain I will strangle him. “Is there anyone Binky hasn’t called?”
“I doubt it. He keeps in close touch with the staff. He begins by asking how I am and ends with wanting to know if Joe is showing any signs of shortness of breath when he brings in the mail.”
“If I have my way Joe Anderson, along with the rest of the world, will outlive Binky Watrous.”
Sofia smiled, recalling no doubt the days when Binky brought in her mail. “He’s a good boy, Archy.” Binky and his doe eyes inspire women to talk such gibberish. Older women, that is. Binky doesn’t have much luck with his contemporaries of the opposite sex.
Relegating Binky to a list labeled extermination, I asked our librarian, “Another favor, Sofia, if I may?”
“You may.”
“What do you know about a Mrs. Ventura?”
“The lady who almost gave her diamond clip to the Goodwill people. Can you imagine the look on the face of the lucky recipient if she had been handed Mrs. Ventura’s slightly used frock?”
“I see that story has made the rounds of polite society.”
“It has made the newspapers, thanks to Lolly Spindrift,” Sofia announced.
“Lolly seems to have taken a shine to Ouspenskaya and I doubt if the psychic is Lolly’s type.”
“Buzz Carr is more Lolly’s type and I hear, by the by, that Phil Meecham is furious with Lady Cynthia....”
I held up my hand like a policeman at a school crossing. “Enough, Sofia.” The fancies and foibles of the Palm Beach rich interest me only when they are relevant to one of my cases which, unfortunately, is almost always. “What can you tell me about Mrs. Ventura,” I asked the eyes and ears of McNally & Son.
“For the record, she’s the second Mrs. Ventura. The first died a few years back and Mr. Ventura, James I believe is his name, married the current Mrs. Ventura, Hanna, before a respectable period of mourning.”
“How long is respectable?”
“A year, usually, but six months is the absolute minimum.”
“And
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