McNally's Caper Read Online Free PDF Page B

or estate planning. Something like that. Your father is our attorney, is he not?”
    “That’s correct. Prescott McNally.”
    “I met him years ago. A gentleman of the old school, as I recall.”
    “He is that,” I agreed.
    She wandered about the library flicking her riding crop at the shelves of leather-bound volumes. “I’ve read damned few of these,” she commented. “Not very spicy, are they? Geraldine is the reader of the family. Have you met my daughter, Mr. McNally?”
    “Yes, I had that pleasure about an hour ago.”
    She snorted and it sounded amazingly like a whinny. “I’m glad you found it a pleasure. Most young men are put off by Gerry. She has a tendency to speak her mind. Gets it from me, I imagine.” She turned suddenly. “Are you married, Mr. McNally?”
    “No, ma’am, I am not.”
    She nodded. “Who was it that said every woman should marry—and no man?”
    “I believe it was Disraeli.”
    “He was right, you know. If I had been a man I would never, never have married.”
    I smiled, amused by this forthright woman. She was bulky and had a mastiff face, ruddy and somewhat ravaged. I wondered if she was a heavy drinker as horsewomen frequently are. But there was no denying her brusque honesty. I thought of her as the leviathan of the Forsythe Family with all these little sloops bobbing about her.
    “You’ve met everyone in the house?” she asked me.
    “I believe so. Of course I already knew your husband and son. Do they ride, Mrs. Forsythe?”
    I heard the whinny again. “Not those two,” she said. “Unless the horse is wood and bolted to a merry-go-round. I’m the only nag nut in the family. Well, that’s not exactly true. Sylvia comes out to the farm occasionally when she gets bored with her harpsichord. She rides very well indeed.”
    “And your grandchild, Lucy?”
    “That darling! I’m going to get her up on a pony if it’s the last thing I do.”
    “Mrs. Forsythe,” I said, “perhaps you can answer a question that’s been puzzling me for years. Why do so many young women—I’m speaking mostly of teenagers—become enamored of horses?”
    She gave me a mocking grin. “That’s easy,” she said. “Because horses are big, strong, handsome, affectionate, and loyal. Everything the lads they know are not.”
    I laughed. “Now it does make sense.”
    “Usually young girls grow out of it,” she continued. “After they realize they can’t go to bed with a horse. Then they settle for a man.”
    “We all must compromise in this life,” I said jokingly.
    But suddenly Mrs. Forsythe was serious. “I wish Geraldine had learned that.” She looked at me speculatively. “Perhaps you can teach her,” she added.
    Then, apparently feeling she had said enough, she left the library abruptly, leaving a slight odor of eau de equine in her wake.
    I sat down again at the desk. But I didn’t immediately return to my work. There was no mistaking Mrs. Forsythe’s intention, and I spent a few moments recalling all the instances when anxious mommies had attempted to interest me in their unmarried daughters. I am not claiming to be a great catch, mind you, but neither am I an impecunious werewolf, and so I am fair game.
    I do not condemn the mothers for trying desperately to ensure their little girls’ futures. Nor do I blame the daughters, for they are frequently unaware of mommy’s machinations and would be horrified if they did know. Nor do I feel any guilt in slinking away from maternal schemings with as much speed and dignity as I can muster.
    I spent an additional hour listing books in the Griswold Forsythe library and meticulously recording title, author, publisher, and copyright. This was all camouflage, you understand—a subterfuge to convince everyone (including the thief) that I was engaged in a legitimate pursuit. My labors were as exciting as tracing the genealogy of the royal family of Ruritania.
    Finally I revolted against the tedious task and made preparations to