Read Online McNally's luck by Lawrence Sanders - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Lawrence Sanders
Tags: det_crime
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language.
"And you said you weren't in fighting trim," Meg scoffed. "You didn't mention loving trim."
"It was your doing," I told her. "Your beauty and joie de vivre. I rose to the occasion and, with your assistance, shall do so again."
"By all means," she said, moving closer.
It was a bit after midnight when we departed from Riviera Beach and headed homeward. We had tarried in her new apartment long enough to bathe together in a delightfully cramped shower stall, using a sliver of soap as thin as a potato chip. The towels had all the absorbency of alengon, but by that time nothing could lessen our beaming felicity.
I pulled into the driveway of the Willigan estate, crawled out of the car, and went around to open Meg's door. I held out a hand to assist her.
"Thank you for a lovely evening, Miss Trumble," I said, completely po-faced. "The pleasure of your company at dinner was exceeded only by the kindness of your hospitality."
"Thank you, Mr. McNally," she said, just as deadpan. "I trust our paths may cross again."
"A consummation devoutly to be wished," I said, and then we both dissolved and kissed. Lingeringly.
Science defines a kiss as the close juxtaposition of two or more orbicular muscles in a state of contraction. Science has a lot to learn.
I drove home in an ecstatic mood, knowing there would be no insomnia and no nightmares that night. And there weren't. I slept the sleep of the just.
Just exhausted and just content.
I awoke the next morning infected with a galloping case of joie de vivre I had obviously contracted from my companion of the night before. At breakfast, mother commented on my good humor and sought the cause.
"Did you have a pleasant dinner engagement, Archy?" she asked.
"Very."
"Connie?"
"No," I said. "Margaret Trumble, sister of Laverne Willigan. I think I may be in love."
My father uttered a single syllable that sounded suspiciously like "Humph."
I told him I would not be driving to the office with him that morning, as I sometimes did, but would be busy with discreet inquiries.
"Oh?" he said. "The cat?"
"No, sir," I said. "The Gillsworth letter."
He nodded. "The more important of the two. Do you have a lead?"
"Anorexic," I said. "But it's all I have."
He left for the office, mother went out to the greenhouse to bid good morning to her begonias, and I went upstairs to my den. I brought my journal up to date, which didn't take long, and then made a phone call.
"Lady Cynthia Horowitz's residence," she recited. "Consuela Garcia speaking."
"Hi, Connie," I said. "Archy. How about lunch today?"
"Love to," she said, "but can't. I'm working on the madam's Fourth of July bash, and I'm having lunch with the fireworks people."
Her friendly tone was gratifying. Obviously she had not been informed of my dinner date the previous night. And since we had agreed on an open relationship, I saw absolutely no reason to feel guilty. So why did I feel guilty?
"Another time then," I said breezily.
"When?" she asked.
Meg Trumble had said she planned to fly back to King of Prussia, so that romance would be on hold until her return. It seemed an ideal time to reassure Connie that our attachment remained intact.
"Dinner tonight?" I suggested.
"You're on," she said. "How about Tex-Mex food?" For a brief instant my world tottered, but then she went on: "There's a new place in Lantana that's supposed to have great chili. Want to try it?"
"Sounds good to me," I said bravely. "Pick you up around seven?"
"I'll be ready."
"Oh, Connie, one more thing: Did you ever hear of a woman named Mrs. Hertha Gloriana?"
"The seance lady? Of course I've heard of her. A lot of people swear she's a whiz."
"You don't happen to have her address and phone number, do you?"
"No, but I think she's listed in the Yellow Pages."
"The Yellow Pages!"
"Sure. Under Psychic Advisers. Why are you laughing?"
"I don't know," I said. "It just seems odd to have Psychic Advisers listed in the Yellow Pages. I mean, if you had a
"And you said you weren't in fighting trim," Meg scoffed. "You didn't mention loving trim."
"It was your doing," I told her. "Your beauty and joie de vivre. I rose to the occasion and, with your assistance, shall do so again."
"By all means," she said, moving closer.
It was a bit after midnight when we departed from Riviera Beach and headed homeward. We had tarried in her new apartment long enough to bathe together in a delightfully cramped shower stall, using a sliver of soap as thin as a potato chip. The towels had all the absorbency of alengon, but by that time nothing could lessen our beaming felicity.
I pulled into the driveway of the Willigan estate, crawled out of the car, and went around to open Meg's door. I held out a hand to assist her.
"Thank you for a lovely evening, Miss Trumble," I said, completely po-faced. "The pleasure of your company at dinner was exceeded only by the kindness of your hospitality."
"Thank you, Mr. McNally," she said, just as deadpan. "I trust our paths may cross again."
"A consummation devoutly to be wished," I said, and then we both dissolved and kissed. Lingeringly.
Science defines a kiss as the close juxtaposition of two or more orbicular muscles in a state of contraction. Science has a lot to learn.
I drove home in an ecstatic mood, knowing there would be no insomnia and no nightmares that night. And there weren't. I slept the sleep of the just.
Just exhausted and just content.
I awoke the next morning infected with a galloping case of joie de vivre I had obviously contracted from my companion of the night before. At breakfast, mother commented on my good humor and sought the cause.
"Did you have a pleasant dinner engagement, Archy?" she asked.
"Very."
"Connie?"
"No," I said. "Margaret Trumble, sister of Laverne Willigan. I think I may be in love."
My father uttered a single syllable that sounded suspiciously like "Humph."
I told him I would not be driving to the office with him that morning, as I sometimes did, but would be busy with discreet inquiries.
"Oh?" he said. "The cat?"
"No, sir," I said. "The Gillsworth letter."
He nodded. "The more important of the two. Do you have a lead?"
"Anorexic," I said. "But it's all I have."
He left for the office, mother went out to the greenhouse to bid good morning to her begonias, and I went upstairs to my den. I brought my journal up to date, which didn't take long, and then made a phone call.
"Lady Cynthia Horowitz's residence," she recited. "Consuela Garcia speaking."
"Hi, Connie," I said. "Archy. How about lunch today?"
"Love to," she said, "but can't. I'm working on the madam's Fourth of July bash, and I'm having lunch with the fireworks people."
Her friendly tone was gratifying. Obviously she had not been informed of my dinner date the previous night. And since we had agreed on an open relationship, I saw absolutely no reason to feel guilty. So why did I feel guilty?
"Another time then," I said breezily.
"When?" she asked.
Meg Trumble had said she planned to fly back to King of Prussia, so that romance would be on hold until her return. It seemed an ideal time to reassure Connie that our attachment remained intact.
"Dinner tonight?" I suggested.
"You're on," she said. "How about Tex-Mex food?" For a brief instant my world tottered, but then she went on: "There's a new place in Lantana that's supposed to have great chili. Want to try it?"
"Sounds good to me," I said bravely. "Pick you up around seven?"
"I'll be ready."
"Oh, Connie, one more thing: Did you ever hear of a woman named Mrs. Hertha Gloriana?"
"The seance lady? Of course I've heard of her. A lot of people swear she's a whiz."
"You don't happen to have her address and phone number, do you?"
"No, but I think she's listed in the Yellow Pages."
"The Yellow Pages!"
"Sure. Under Psychic Advisers. Why are you laughing?"
"I don't know," I said. "It just seems odd to have Psychic Advisers listed in the Yellow Pages. I mean, if you had a
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