Read Online McNally's Secret by Lawrence Sanders - Free Book Online
Authors: Lawrence Sanders
Tags: Suspense
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right, Ar-chay. Clara and I are to be married.”
“Congratulations,” I said heartily.
“For one night,” he added, and gave a great shout of laughter.
“What did he say?” Clara demanded of me. “Is the blimp talking dirty again?”
“Not at all,” I said hastily. “He told me that I can accept every word you say as gospel since you know everything that’s going on in this house.”
“That I do,” she said, nodding. “But I see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil.”
“Very wise,” I assured her.
When I left, she was tickling the back of his fat neck. I do believe she might have seated herself on his lap—if he had one.
I decided I had earned my salary for the day, and besides, asking the same questions continually had the same effect as the Chinese water torture. I drove home, changed, and went down to the beach for a swim. I resolutely did my two miles and returned home in time to dress for the family cocktail hour and my date with Jennifer Towley.
Mother remarked how handsome I looked, father stared disgustedly at my acid green polo shirt, and I ingested my share of the martini pitcher’s contents. Then I bid them good night and departed for what I hoped would be an evening of a thousand delights. I didn’t forget Jennifer’s tennis racquet. Talk about Greeks bearing gifts!
She lived across Lake Worth, south of the Royal Park Bridge. It was an old neighborhood of short streets west of Flagler Drive. The homes were small but pleasant, the grounds limited but neatly groomed. Jennifer rented the ground floor of a two-story stucco building painted a sky blue. Her apartment was her antique shop; everything in the place was for sale—except the lady herself, of course.
She greeted me at the door, and I entered into a foyer (Edwardian) and then was ushered into the living room (Victorian). I had suggested she dress informally, but she was impeccably upholstered in a black dress so simple and nothing that it must have cost a fortune. The only jewelry she wore was a pale amethyst choker. Elegant? On a scale of 1 to 10, I’d rate her a 12.
The tennis racquet was an instant success; after hefting it and trying a few swings, she declared the weight and balance were perfect. I received a kiss in gratitude. It was a very small kiss but much appreciated.
I held the Miata door for her, and she slid in with a flash of bare tanned legs that made me want to turn cartwheels on her lawn. But I controlled my rapture and we sped off to the Pelican Club. I called her attention to the full moon I had ordered for the occasion.
“I may turn into a werewolf,” I cautioned.
“I’ll get some garlic at the restaurant,” she said.
“Garlic is for vampires,” I told her. “And frogs’ legs. There is no known defense against a werewolf.”
“I have a black belt in karate,” she claimed.
“I have a white belt in Indian wrestling,” I said. “Perhaps later this evening you will permit me to demonstrate.”
She laughed. “What am I going to do with you?” she asked.
“Love me,” I replied, but I did not say it aloud.
We were early enough to beat the usual dinner crowd, and Priscilla showed us to my favorite corner table. Jennifer looked about with interest.
“It resembles a fraternity house,” she said.
“It was intended to,” I said. “Strictly stag. But shortly after the club was organized, the ladyfriends and wives of several founding members threatened a lawsuit if they were not allowed to join. They said they would claim sex discrimination because we were carrying on business networking at the club. Actually, the only networking going on was an active exchange of hangover remedies, but we surrendered graciously to their demands. Now the Pelican Club is a coed establishment. The roster is full, but I chair the Membership Committee and might be able to finagle a quid pro quo and get you a card if you’re interested in joining.”
“Thank you,” she said, giving me the cool, level
“Congratulations,” I said heartily.
“For one night,” he added, and gave a great shout of laughter.
“What did he say?” Clara demanded of me. “Is the blimp talking dirty again?”
“Not at all,” I said hastily. “He told me that I can accept every word you say as gospel since you know everything that’s going on in this house.”
“That I do,” she said, nodding. “But I see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil.”
“Very wise,” I assured her.
When I left, she was tickling the back of his fat neck. I do believe she might have seated herself on his lap—if he had one.
I decided I had earned my salary for the day, and besides, asking the same questions continually had the same effect as the Chinese water torture. I drove home, changed, and went down to the beach for a swim. I resolutely did my two miles and returned home in time to dress for the family cocktail hour and my date with Jennifer Towley.
Mother remarked how handsome I looked, father stared disgustedly at my acid green polo shirt, and I ingested my share of the martini pitcher’s contents. Then I bid them good night and departed for what I hoped would be an evening of a thousand delights. I didn’t forget Jennifer’s tennis racquet. Talk about Greeks bearing gifts!
She lived across Lake Worth, south of the Royal Park Bridge. It was an old neighborhood of short streets west of Flagler Drive. The homes were small but pleasant, the grounds limited but neatly groomed. Jennifer rented the ground floor of a two-story stucco building painted a sky blue. Her apartment was her antique shop; everything in the place was for sale—except the lady herself, of course.
She greeted me at the door, and I entered into a foyer (Edwardian) and then was ushered into the living room (Victorian). I had suggested she dress informally, but she was impeccably upholstered in a black dress so simple and nothing that it must have cost a fortune. The only jewelry she wore was a pale amethyst choker. Elegant? On a scale of 1 to 10, I’d rate her a 12.
The tennis racquet was an instant success; after hefting it and trying a few swings, she declared the weight and balance were perfect. I received a kiss in gratitude. It was a very small kiss but much appreciated.
I held the Miata door for her, and she slid in with a flash of bare tanned legs that made me want to turn cartwheels on her lawn. But I controlled my rapture and we sped off to the Pelican Club. I called her attention to the full moon I had ordered for the occasion.
“I may turn into a werewolf,” I cautioned.
“I’ll get some garlic at the restaurant,” she said.
“Garlic is for vampires,” I told her. “And frogs’ legs. There is no known defense against a werewolf.”
“I have a black belt in karate,” she claimed.
“I have a white belt in Indian wrestling,” I said. “Perhaps later this evening you will permit me to demonstrate.”
She laughed. “What am I going to do with you?” she asked.
“Love me,” I replied, but I did not say it aloud.
We were early enough to beat the usual dinner crowd, and Priscilla showed us to my favorite corner table. Jennifer looked about with interest.
“It resembles a fraternity house,” she said.
“It was intended to,” I said. “Strictly stag. But shortly after the club was organized, the ladyfriends and wives of several founding members threatened a lawsuit if they were not allowed to join. They said they would claim sex discrimination because we were carrying on business networking at the club. Actually, the only networking going on was an active exchange of hangover remedies, but we surrendered graciously to their demands. Now the Pelican Club is a coed establishment. The roster is full, but I chair the Membership Committee and might be able to finagle a quid pro quo and get you a card if you’re interested in joining.”
“Thank you,” she said, giving me the cool, level
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