McNally's Folly Read Online Free PDF

mentioned and as we pored over them the McNally family enjoyed one of the happiest happy hours of our illustrious history.
    Ursi, our cook-housekeeper, fed us scallops sautéed in a mixture of garlic-scented olive oil and clarified butter, accompanied by porcini risotto and steamed sugar snap peas with lemon zest. The lord of the manor uncorked a fine bottle of muscadet to go with the repast Dessert was a ripened honeydew whose time had come, along with a plate of crisp cat’s tongue wafers tipped with melted Valhrona chocolate. Surfeited, I was ready to face the unknown.

THREE
    R OLAND WELCOMED ME AT the front door with a nod and a polite, “Good evening, Mr. McNally.”
    “Good evening, Roland. Did Jamie tell you I was coming tonight?”
    “No, sir. Mr. Tremaine gave me the guest list.”
    In the detective business, you win some and you lose some.
    Roland had a British accent and a countenance that explained why it was always the butler who was suspected of having done it. In the Town of Palm Beach, authentic British butlers were at a premium and paid accordingly. If they had worked for a “title,” they often received a bonus just for agreeing to leave foggy London for sunny Palm Beach. And, if they had so much as opened a door to a member of the royal family, their salary and perks began to take on the proportions of those enjoyed by the wunderkind of Silicon Valley.
    Needless to say, authentic British nannies were also sought after on this side of the Atlantic, and were in even scarcer supply. However, in Palm Beach, young children were as scarce as authentic nannies, so the situation was less desperate than the scramble for a bona fide butler.
    As I followed Roland through an entrance hall whose furnishings would make Marie Antoinette Bourbon look like a minimalist, I asked, “Is everyone here?”
    “All except Mr. Ouspenskaya, sir.”
    “Do you know Ouspenskaya, Roland?”
    “No, sir. But I’ve heard of him.”
    “From who?”
    “Jamie Olson, sir.”
    And the circle was complete.
    While still digesting Ursi’s dinner and Father’s news, I was dealt the second surprise of an evening that seemed to have an endless supply. Roland announced me and upon entering the Tremaine drawing room the first thing to meet my gaze was the gorgeous Fitz in gold toreador pants and matching halter. Olé.
    Besides the host and hostess, I was greeted by Emily Fairhurst and her secretary, Arnold Turnbolt. The Fairhursts, John and Emily, were landed aristocracy of the Plymouth Rock variety who had never employed a British butler or, when their children were tots, a British nanny. Mr. Fairhurst was not a social animal, as they say, so in their senior years Mrs. Fairhurst had discovered the advantages of employing a “walker,” the name assigned, for obvious reasons, to men who escort rich ladies of a certain age.
    The fact that Turnbolt was also Mrs. Fairhurst’s secretary made this extra duty less apparent, and the fact that Turnbolt was charming, witty and clever made him a natural for the job. Last, but most important, the fact that Turnbolt was gay made the arrangement above suspicion.
    Roland took my drink order, a tall vodka and tonic, at which point everyone spoke at once, assuring each other that they did not believe in psychic phenomena, reincarnation, UFOs, witches, ghosts or the healing powers of crystals.
    “We’re here for a lark,” Penny said, holding fast to her husband’s arm. Penelope Brightworth Tremaine was as plain as homemade soap. Vance, who had been on every deb’s most-wanted list when he was an Eli, was blessed with the kind of good looks that improve with age. In the words of a Ziegfeld comedienne of yore, “The groom was prettier than the bride.”
    If money couldn’t buy happiness, it could buy the most remarkable substitutes, and for a quarter of a century Penny had fought to protect hers. The strain was beginning to show. One wondered why she didn’t dump the satyr for a more reliable