McNally's Dilemma by Lawrence Sanders, Vincent Lardo

and I know about both the letter and Grandfather’s escapade.”
    “Your children?” I asked.
    “No, Archy. I thought it best to let the story die with me. Saw no reason to pass it on to my heirs, and my wife agreed.”
    “I think you should keep the letter, Mr. Fairhurst. It’s of no use to me, and I don’t want to be responsible for its safekeeping.”
    “Very sensible,” Father said, relieved.
    “And,” I continued, “I don’t think we can do very much until you receive the letter instructing you where and when to deliver the money. They will have to give us a contact point, and that can lead directly to them—which they know—so how we play it from there will win us, or lose us, the day. I can guarantee nothing, Mr. Fairhurst, but our sincere effort to foil the scheme.” This was my standard close.
    “I understand, Archy, and I appreciate your help.” Fairhurst returned the letter to the inside pocket of his blazer.
    “Mr. Fairhurst, do you have any idea how a family secret known only to you and Mrs. Fairhurst came to be known to a common blackmailer?”
    “I honestly do not, Archy.”
    “And one more thing, sir. How many are on your household staff?”
    “There are a butler and a housekeeper, and a secretary who assists both me and Mrs. Fairhurst. Cleaning people and gardeners come daily and are overseen by Peterson, our butler, and the housekeeper, who happens to be Mrs. Peterson.”
    Not a large crew for a house often compared to Mar-A-Lago, the former home of Post Toasties heiress Marjorie Merriweather Post. Mar-A-Lago is now owned by a New York realtor. I imagine the “dailies” who come in to round out the Fairhurst staff constitute a small army.
    “Do you trust them, Mr. Fairhurst?”
    “Implicitly, Archy. The Petersons have been with us for over twenty years, and Arnold, our secretary, for a dozen years at least.”
    “I see...”
    “Oh, I almost forgot my chauffeur, Seth Walker. He’s part-time, as my wife and I don’t gad about as much as we used to. I took him on about a month ago, but he came highly recommended by Geoff Williams—you know, Melva’s husband.”
    My flabber- was gasted, but this didn’t throw me off the scent. Sooner or later I would have to check out Fairhurst’s staff and I decided that sooner would be better than later. “I would like to visit your home and have a look around. Naturally, I’ll come on some pretense so as not to arouse suspicion among your staff.”
    “Call me and I’ll arrange it,” Fairhurst agreed.
    John Fairhurst III had hired a chauffeur recommended by Geoff Williams, who was dead, thanks to Geoff’s wife, whose daughter had moved in below me, which led to Binky being bitten by Hobo, thereby precipitating a rabies alert.
    I should have ordered two Quaaludes.

8
    F ATHER HAD MADE LUNCH reservations at Ta-Boo’, known for its delicious green linguine, which I declined in favor of hurrying back to the delicious Veronica. I left Father, explaining Melva’s situation to Fairhurst, who kept shaking his head while muttering the inevitable “Poor Melva.” Perhaps a gratuitous lament in retaliation for Melva’s ancestors crossing the Atlantic on the Mayflower and settling in Plymouth, where their good Yankee sense told them not to push their luck and traverse it again on the Titanic.
    Palm Beach society is a relatively small tribe. Most evenings, members in good standing are obliged to mix and mingle over cocktails, dinner, and charity events. Afternoons, they cross one another’s paths on golf courses and tennis courts or toot at one another from deluxe watercraft. Mornings, they sleep in. I have long felt that life here is nothing more than a conjurer’s trick performed with a dozen talking heads and a thousand mirrors.
    Ergo, it was no surprise that while schmoozing with his betters over a martini or across a table, Geoff had recommended a driver to Fairhurst; it was the driver who was the enigma. Had Geoff tried to palm off an