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serves as den mother, son Leroy is our chef, and daughter Priscilla does her own take on how a waitress should behave. They are a merry crew and had rescued the Pelican from the shoals of Chapter 7. (That’s total bankruptcy, not the seventh section of this tome.)
    The rear dining area was vacant and I grabbed the relatively secluded corner table Connie Garcia and I customarily select. Priscilla was nowhere to be seen but I was hardly seated before Binky Watrous came bustling in. He always arrives promptly for a free meal. Not that he’s a moocher; he’s just continually tapped out.
    “You saved my life,” he told me, flopping into a chair. “The Duchess wanted me to escort her to a flute recital. But I told her I had an important business meeting with you. She wanted to know when I start drawing a salary. When, Archy?”
    “Binky,” I said, “I thought after a period of on-the-job training you intended to go into business as a private investigator, the Philip Marlowe of Palm Beach.”
    “Well, yes, that’s my plan. Do you think I’m ready?”
    I didn’t say, “Never!” I said, “Almost but not quite.”
    I was saved from dashing more balder when Priscilla came sashaying from the kitchen. She was wearing what appeared to be a denim muumuu painted with signs of the zodiac.
    “Very fetching, Pris,” I said. “Where did you get it—army surplus?”
    “Keep it up, kiddo,” she said, “and you’ll need a stomach pump after lunch. You two nits want a drink?”
    “Splendid idea,” I said. “Vodka rocks for me. Binky?”
    “I’ll have a Jameson straight, no ice. And please, Priscilla, would you ask Simon to add three drops of Irish Mist.”
    “I think his dropper is broken,” she said, “but I’ll try.” And she bopped away.
    “His dropper is broken?” Binky said, bewildered.
    “Forget it,” I advised. “It was just sass. So you’ve switched to Irish whiskey, have you? Thinking about Bridget?”
    “Oh, yes,” he said dreamily. “She’s probably wandering through the shamrocks right now, wishing I was there.”
    “Or quaffing a pint of Guinness Stout and trying to remember your name. Why don’t you marry the girl, Binky?”
    “Why don’t you marry Connie?” he countered.
    We glowered at each other, a nice pair of poltroons.
    Binky is a palish lad with fair hair and a wispy blond mustache in need of a good dose of Miracle-Gro. He is of short stature and small-boned, so there is not much to him physically. Or mentally, I might add. I recall he once tasted the vichyssoise he had ordered and complained indignantly to the waiter, “My soup is cold!”
    But he’s a good-hearted chap, no malice in him, and the fact that his gears may have slipped a notch or two doesn’t diminish my affection for him. I mean, he’s really an innocent with a limited comprehension of the brute world. Some women react to his naïveté with a desire to mother him. Binky is not so ingenuous as to let those opportunities for a more intimate relationship slip by.
    Priscilla returned with our drinks. “What’s on the menu?” I asked her.
    “Stains,” she said. “But if it’s food you want, Leroy is pushing knockwurst, sauerkraut, and baked beans.”
    “Sounds good to me,” I said. “Binky?”
    “All right,” he said doubtfully. “But will it give me gas?”
    “It might,” Pris admitted. “If it does, please wait until you’re out in the parking lot.”
    And she went into the kitchen cackling.

CHAPTER 5
    W E NURSED OUR DRINKS while I gave my Dr. Watson a rundown on the role he was to play in the new Discreet Inquiry.
    “There’s a man in West Palm,” I started, “who claims to be an investment adviser, financial consultant, money manager—whatever. Apparently he makes his living by handling other people’s money.”
    “I’d like a job like that,” Binky said.
    “And you may be as well qualified as he. Anyway, I have his name, address, and phone number. What I’d like you to do is call