McNally's Dare by Lawrence Sanders, Vincent Lardo Page A

Boulevard domestic brigade would spread the word that I had met the enemy and vanquished him without firing a shot. “What’s new with the rich folks, Ursi?” That stopped her from fussing over the sink.
    “Well, that tennis player, Jackson Barnett, spent two nights on Phil Meecham’s yacht, and isn’t that a scandal? Mrs. Marsden tells me that Lady C has been on the ship-to-shore phone trying to get Mr. Meecham to turn Barnett over to her. Whatever happened to quality folks, Archy?”
    Mrs. Marsden is Lady Cynthia’s housekeeper and our Ursi’s best friend and confidante. Also, Meecham’s yacht is berthed in a first-class marina on Lake Worth, so the ship is not very far from the shore. “Quality folks, Ursi, have gone the way of the horseless carriage and the divorceless marriage. What do you hear about the boy who was drowned at the MacNiff party?”
    “Poor child,” Ursi said. “Who knows what those kids have gotten up to? Mrs. MacNiff is doing nicely, so Maria tells me. She’s been in touch with the boy’s father—Mrs. MacNiff, that is, not Maria—and the MacNiffs are paying all funeral expenses, though Lord knows they aren’t obligated.”
    As happens in the land of unaffordable housing, sympathy had already shifted from poor Jeff to those his murder had inconvenienced, with the MacNiff’s show of noblesse oblige garnering all the attention and applause. Well, I care about Jeffrey Rodgers and I don’t give a damn who knows it. I vowed there and then to bring his killer to justice regardless of whose toes I stepped on along the way. (Which reminded me, did Lance Talbot have nine or ten of those digits?)
    Sitting at my desk I could indulge in an English Oval while sipping a cup of Ursi’s home brew, after banishing the return of Joe Gallo to the nethermost regions of my mind. As a rule I am not opposed to competition, but I never play by the rules.
    “The King Is Dead,” I began, writing in black ink with my silver Montblanc pen. I must say I liked the title.
    First question: Were these words the ranting of an old woman under the influence of a strong narcotic, administered to make her exit from this world as peaceful as possible, or was she trying to tell Malcolm MacNiff something about her newly returned grandson and heir?
    Answer: To be determined.
    I recorded what I had seen and heard at the MacNiffs before and after the young waitress discovered Jeff’s body in the pool, noting that Denny and I agreed Lance Talbot had not gone near the pool that afternoon. Here, I jotted down the name Holga von Brecht because she was linked to Lance Talbot. Recalling the daggers Vivian Emerson had directed at Holga across the net, I added her name to my roster which, in turn, got Joe Gallo on the list.
    Next, I penned what I had learned during my lunch with Malcolm MacNiff and from my meeting with Dennis Darling. Putting it in writing, I find, is a good way to sort out the facts, refrain from jumping to conclusions and plan my next move, which, in this case, would be my first move.
    I am not a believer in coincidences; therefore, if Jeff boasted he had something on Lance Talbot and was murdered, the odds were a million to one that Jeff was silenced because of what he had on Talbot. But even those odds did not rule out the possibility that Jeff was killed for reasons having nothing to do with Lance Talbot. Given similar odds, people do win lotteries and hit the jackpot playing one-armed bandits in casinos from Monte Carlo to Las Vegas and all stops between. In short, assume nothing.
    Be that as it may, if Denny and I were correct, one had to assume Lance Talbot was not the culprit, which was a pity as he was the most likely suspect. All good detectives, from Sherlock Holmes to dear Miss Marple, advise us to know thy victim. I didn’t know Jeff Rodgers but I knew someone who did. A visit with Todd, born Edward, would be where I would begin my search for a dead king.
    I pulled into our underground garage where