Free McNally's Caper by Lawrence Sanders Page B

the padrone standing before his antique rolltop desk. He did not appear to be overjoyed by my visit.
    “Yes, yes, Archy,” he said testily, “what is it now?”
    “The Forsythe investigation,” I said. “Father, it would help if I knew a little more about the family’s finances. To be specific, who controls the exchequer?”
    Of course he immediately lapsed into his mulling mode, trying to determine how much information he might ethically reveal. Finally he decided to trust his bubbleheaded sprout—to a limited degree.
    “There is a grantor trust in existence,” he said briefly. “The elder Forsythe is the trustee.”
    “Wife and children have no independent income?”
    “They are given rather meager allowances for their personal expenses.”
    “Meager, sir?” I said. “As in skimpy, paltry, and stingy?”
    “That is correct,” he said with a wintry smile. “But he is also responsible for the taxes and upkeep of the Forsythe properties, including salaries of staff. It is not an inconsiderable sum, I assure you.”
    I persisted. “In other words, spouse and children are totally dependent upon Mr. Forsythe’s largesse.”
    “Yes,” he said irritably, “if you wish to put it that way.”
    “And in the event of the trustee’s demise?”
    “The estate is then distributed to the named beneficiaries. After payment of taxes, of course.”
    “And wife, son, and daughter are the named beneficiaries?”
    He nodded. “The granddaughter’s legacy will be held in trust by her father until she comes of age. There are additional bequests to members of the domestic staff.”
    “I don’t suppose you’d care to reveal the value of the individual bequests.”
    “You don’t suppose correctly,” he said frostily.
    “Considerable?” I suggested.
    “Yes,” he said, “I think that’s a fair assumption.”
    I knew I’d get nothing more, thanked him for his assistance, and returned to my office. What had I learned? Little more than I had already guessed. The one mild surprise was that Mrs. Constance Forsythe was not independently wealthy. In Palm Beach, as elsewhere in the world, money usually marries money—which is why the rich get richer and the poor get bupkes.
    I spent the next several minutes consulting telephone directories—more valuable to the amateur sleuth than a deerstalker cap and meerschaum pipe. I looked up the address and phone number of Rufino Diaz, the Forsythes’ gardener. My purpose? No purpose. But during an investigation I am an inveterate collector of facts. Most of them inevitably turn out to be the drossiest of dross—but one never knows, do one? I also found the address and phone number of the Trojan Stables in Wellington.
    I scrawled notes on both locations and tucked them into my wallet. I then bounced downstairs to our underground garage, boarded the Miata, and set out to explore.
    On that morning, I recall, I was wearing an awning-striped sport jacket with fawny slacks, pinkish mocs (no socks, naturally), and my favorite fedora of white straw. The sun was beaming, the humidity mercifully low, and I felt it quite possible that I might live forever. The denouement of the Forsythe affair was to demolish that illusion.
    I found the home of Rufino Diaz with little trouble. I was not amazed to discover he lived in a motel—many South Florida motels are happy to have year-round tenants—but I was surprised by the prosperous appearance of the place. I don’t wish to imply it was the Taj Mahal, but it did seem to be more elegant and expensive than one might expect of the residence of a man who raked lawns for a living. I realized that Sheila Hayworth had probably spoken the truth when she said Rufino had a “cute little apartment.” With Jacuzzi and ceiling mirrors, no doubt.
    The Trojan Stables required a more lengthy search but was well worth the effort. It was a handsome spread—twenty acres at least, I estimated—with a smallish office building and a barn that looked large