McNally's Puzzle Read Online Free PDF Page B

luv?”
    “Possibly,” I said. “If so, you’ll be the first to know.”
    “I better be. The daughters are Judith and Julia. Identical twins. Two wildebeests. Not as fruity as their brother but almost. Maybe it runs in the family.” (Cf. Connie’s remark.)
    “Unrestrained, one might say?”
    “One might,” he agreed. “They’re very attractive, ducky, which may tickle your id, but they’re not my species, as you well know. The girls are remarkable look-alikes. Their favorite caper is to date the same man, separately and alternately, without revealing their deception. The poor stud thinks he’s bedding Judith. He might be. Or it might be Julia. They’re practically indistinguishable and think gulling their lovers is the funniest hoax in the world.”
    “Surely they don’t dress alike.”
    “Oh no, they don’t carry their twinship that far.”
    “Ever married? Either or both?”
    “Not to my knowledge. Only to each other.”
    “Thank you, Lol,” I said gratefully. “You’ve been much help, as usual. I’ll stay in touch.”
    “Do that,” he warned. “Or I may be forced to publish an entire column on the romantic peccadilloes of Archibald McNally.”
    “Perish the thought.”
    “I shall,” he said. “Temporarily.”
    Although interested by what I had learned, I called a halt to sherlocking for the remainder of the afternoon. I tugged on cerise Speedo swimming trunks, added a terry Donald Duck cover-up and leather sandals, grabbed a towel, and went down to the sea for my daily dunk.
    I did the usual two miles, south and back, flogging my flaccid muscles into action. Truthfully it was more of a wallow than a swim but I finished with a great sense of accomplishment, hoping mens sana in corpore sano really applied to me but with a lurking suspicion I flunked the sano part.
    I returned to my den, showered away salt water and sand, and dressed casually in time to attend the family cocktail hour. This is not an hour of course, more like thirty minutes when the McNally tribe traditionally gathers in our second-floor sitting room for a pitcher of gin martinis mixed by the lord of the manor. After one wallop—and occasionally a small dividend—we all troop downstairs for dinner.
    Dinner that night was sautéed yellowtail snapper with potato patties Ursi Olson had made with a few tablespoons of sherry. Good for Ursi! Dessert was a chocolate cheesecake. Ursi hadn’t made that; it was store-bought. It was excellent but so rich I could feel my arteries slowly hardening. I could scarcely finish a second slice.
    Back in my digs I kicked off my mocs and donned reading glasses. Yes, despite my tender age, I do need specs for close-up work. I never wear them in public of course since they make me look like a cybernetic nerd and would utterly destroy my sedulously cultivated image of a cavalier, a dashing combination of D’Artagnan and Bugs Bunny.
    I sat at my arthritic desk and started a fresh page in my journal. This is a professional diary in which I keep notes of my discreet inquiries. I am not yet a resident of la-la land, you understand, but now and then I do forget things and find a scribbled record an invaluable aid.
    I wrote rapidly in my crabbed hieroglyphics, which even I sometimes have trouble deciphering. I started with my father’s alert: Hiram Gottschalk feared for his life. Then I added everything that had happened since: my visit to Parrots Unlimited, interview with the client, enlisting of Binky Watrous, and what I had learned from Simon Pettibone, Connie Garcia, and Lolly Spindrift.
    Finally I dug out the list Mr. Gottschalk had given me of members of his household: family and staff. I was copying their names when one caused me to pause. His housekeeper and apparently mistress of the Gottschalk ménage was Yvonne Chrisling.
    I distinctly recalled Hiram telling me the name of the manager of Parrots Unlimited. It was Ricardo Chrisling, an uncommon surname. I had to assume Yvonne and Ricardo were