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interviewing one of the principals.”
    He groaned. “That business of out-of-state burials?”
    “Exactly.”
    “Do I really have to be there?” he said, wounded. “I rented a tape of The Curse of the Cat People and I was looking forward to—”
    “Binky!” I said sharply. “You want to be the new Sam Spade, don’t you? Now go get a piece of paper, lick a pencil, and I’ll give you the address.”
    We synchronized watches and agreed to meet at Sunny Fogarty’s home at nine-thirty.
    “If you arrive before I do,” I warned, “don’t you dare enter before I show up.”
    “Wouldn’t think of it,” he said.
    “And when we have our conversation with the lady, I want you to let me carry the ball. You say nothing unless you’re asked a direct question. Is that understood?”
    “Absolutely, boss,” Binky said. “I shall be nothing more than a flea on the wall.”
    I was about to remind him that the expression was “a fly on the wall.” But then I reflected he probably had it right.

5.
    T RAFFIC WAS UNEXPECTEDLY HEAVY that night, and by the time I got across the Royal Park Bridge to West Palm Beach I knew I was running late. Also, I had a bit of trouble finding Sunny Fogarty’s home. It turned out to be a rather posh condo high-rise off Olive Avenue, almost directly across from Connie Garcia’s apartment on Lake Worth. If that had any significance I didn’t want to think about it.
    I pulled into the guest parking area, disembarked, and looked about for Binky’s heap. And there it was. My Dr. Watson drives a 1970 Mercedes Benz 280 SE Cabriolet. It had been beautifully restored when he bought it, but the lunkhead hadn’t cosseted it. It was dented, rusted, had a passenger door that didn’t quite latch, and generally presented an appearance of sad dilapidation. The vandalism wasn’t deliberate, you understand—just an example of Binky’s breezy treatment of all his possessions. He wears a gold Rolex that stopped four years ago.
    What rattled my cage at the moment was that the Mercedes was unoccupied. That probably meant the idiot owner had disregarded my firm instructions and had barged in on Sunny Fogarty instead of awaiting my arrival. Uttering a mild oath, I hurried to the entrance and found an exterior security system requesting guests to dial a three-digit number listed on a directory, to speak to and be admitted by the residents.
    I punched out the number for Sunny’s apartment. She answered almost immediately.
    “Archy McNally,” I said. “May I come up?”
    “Of course,” she said. “Your assistant is already here.”
    “Sorry about that.”
    “No need to apologize. He’s entertaining me with birdcalls.”
    I quailed. Rather fitting, don’cha think?
    She buzzed me in, and I rode an art deco elevator to the sixth floor.
    The living room of Sunny’s apartment was elegant without being lavish. I had no idea of her annual salary or net worth, but she had mentioned the expense of keeping an ailing mother in a nursing home. Still, she drove a new car and apparently owned this charming condo that bespoke moneyed ease. It was enough to give one pause. If not you, then certainly me.
    Señor Watrous, wearing his hellish blazer, was sprawled on a couch upholstered in bottle-green velvet. I glared at him and received a sappy grin in response. I turned to our hostess.
    “Sunny,” I said, “I see you’ve already met my aide-de-camp. Light on the aid and heavy on the camp.”
    She smiled. “I think Binky is very talented. May I offer you gentlemen a drink?”
    “Oh, don’t go to any—” I started, but Binky piped up.
    “I’d like something,” he said. “How about a vodka rocks? Do you have the makings?”
    “I do,” she said. “The same for you, Archy?”
    I nodded.
    “That makes three of us. It’ll just take a minute.”
    She went out to the kitchen, and I whirled on Binky. “Behave yourself,” I admonished. “And try to keep your big, fat mouth shut. You