McNally's Risk Read Online Free PDF

to have a few words with the live-in domestic. I was rewarded when she came bustling forward to show me out.
    “You’ve been very kind,” I told her, “and I thank you for it. You know, I must confess that I don’t know your name. You know mine, and I don’t know yours. That’s not fair!”
    She gave me that radiant smile again. “Mrs. Jane Folsby,” she said.
    “Mrs. Folsby,” I said, reaching to shake her hand, “it’s been a pleasure to meet you. Have you been with the Hawkins long?”
    The smile faded. “Too long,” she said.
    I left that acorn academy and turned to see if there was a nameplate over the front door. Some Palm Beach mansions have cutesy titles such as “Last Resort” and “Wit’s End.” But the Hawkins’ manse boasted no legend. I thought “Villa Bile” might be fitting.
    But I’m a sunny-tempered johnny, and even the events of that gruesome morning didn’t drag me down for long. I wasn’t quite certain if what I had heard from the Hawkin family had anything at all to do with Theodosia Johnson, the intended bride of the Chinless Wonder.
    It was time, I concluded, to inject some joy and innocent delight into my life. So as I drove northward I used my new cellular phone to call Consuela Garcia at Lady Cynthia Horowitz’s mansion.
    “Miss Garcia,” I said formally, “this is Archy McNally speaking. I wish to apologize for my recent behavior and beg your forgiveness. I also wish to invite you to lunch at twelve-thirty at the Pelican Club.”
    “Okay,” Connie said cheerfully.
    Divine woman! Why I continually fall in love with others of the female persuasion is beyond me. If it isn’t a genetic defect, it must be a compulsive-obsessive disorder. I really should read up on it, and I fully intend to—one of these days.

Chapter 3
    T HE PELICAN CLUB WAS cranking with the noonday crowd when I entered, but fortunately most of the Pelicanites were seated at tables in the bar area or dining room. I was able to find an unoccupied barstool, and Simon Pettibone came ambling over to ask my pleasure.
    Ordinarily, my favorite summer potion is a frozen daiquiri, but recently I had been browsing through a secondhand bookstore and had come across a bartender’s guide published in the mid-1930s, shortly after Prohibition was repealed. (Bless you, FDR!)
    Naturally I purchased this fascinating compendium and spent many enjoyable hours studying the recipes of cocktails now lost and forgotten. Of course it included such classics as Manhattan, Bronx, Rob Roy, and Sazerac. But it also listed the ingredients of such obscure mixed drinks as Sweet Patootie, Seventh Heaven, and Arise My Love. (I kid you not.)
    Much to my astonishment, I discovered our publican knew, he actually knew, how to mix many of these antique libations. It had become a game to test his expertise, and he succeeded more often than he failed.
    “Today, Mr. Pettibone,” I said, “I would like a Soul Kiss.” It was a request that drew a few startled glances from nearby bar patrons.
    “Soul Kiss,” he repeated thoughtfully, cast his eyes upward and reflected. “Ah, yes,” he said finally. “Orange juice, Dubonnet, dry vermouth, and bourbon.”
    “Bravo!” I cried. “You’ve got it—and I hope to get it as soon as possible.”
    He set to work.
    I was sipping my Soul Kiss, wondering how long it might take to work my way through the 1000-plus drinks listed in the guide, when Consuela Garcia came bouncing into the Club. She immediately looked toward the bar, spotted me, and waved. I stood up and beamed happily.
    Connie is as toothsome as a charlotte russe, but that is hardly the limit of her appeal. She has a sharp wit, is extremely clever at her job, and is just naturally a jolly lady. There are those who wonder why I don’t marry the girl. The answer is simple: cowardice. Not fear of Connie so much as fear of matrimony itself.
    I see wedded bliss as a kind of surrender—which I agree is an immature attitude. But I think of