Free McNally's Folly by Lawrence Sanders, Vincent Lardo

Binky shouldn’t rent himself out as a pet to rich, middle-aged women and give up waiting for Joe Anderson to throw in the towel. “If I were Joe Anderson,” I said, “I wouldn’t let Binky within gun range of my person.”
    Mrs. Sharif shook her head in dismay. “Binky wouldn’t hurt a fly, Archy.”
    “I agree, Mrs. Sharif, but I’m still going to throttle him. Now may I have the Ventura address and phone number, please.”
    “Do you want to compare notes with Mrs. Ventura on your mutual out-of-this-world experiences?”
    “How did you guess?”
    As surreptitiously as if she were purloining the Dead Sea Scrolls from an ancient crypt, Mrs. Sharif removed the big black book from the bottom drawer of her desk, put on her reading glasses and revealed the Venturas’ address and phone number.
    I made it back to my cubbyhole without encountering another soul who had talked to Binky Watrous that morning, passing only Joe Anderson pushing a shopping cart filled with mail and whistling merrily as he rolled along.
    I dialed the Ventura home and was greeted with a melodious “Hello” by a female I assumed to be the housekeeper.
    “Is Mrs. Ventura in, please?”
    “This is Mrs. Ventura.” The melodious voice took on a southern accent.
    “I’m Archy McNally, Mrs. Ventura, and I’m calling...”
    “Archy McNally! Why, what a coincidence. I mean, this is truly serendipity. I was just talking to Penny Tremaine and she told me about your sitting with Mr. Ouspenskaya last night and I said—I said—‘Why, Penny, I just have to talk to Mr. McNally and compare notes.’ That’s what I said and now—just like that—here you are. We are experiencing something remarkable, Mr. McNally. Can’t you just feel it?”
    What I felt was an assault on my eardrum but if getting to meet with Hanna Ventura was this easy, I would have to admit that, yes, it was very remarkable. “Are you free this afternoon, Mrs. Ventura?”
    “No, sir. I am not. I have an appointment with Mr. Archy McNally. I’ll expect you in one hour and—do you have the address, Mr. McNally?”
    “South County Road,” I answered.
    “Serendipity,” Hanna Ventura cried.
    “Bingo,” I cried back.

SIX
    T HE DOOR WAS OPENED by a uniformed maid and only after I assured her that I wasn’t a born-again zealot soliciting converts, or selling the Encyclopedia Britannica, did she lead the way to her mistress. I followed her down a long entrance hall decorated with land- and seascapes by the school of artists known as California Impressionists, mounted in ornate gilded frames. The hallway led to a screened patio and a rear patio door led to a backyard of green lawn, palms, royal poincianas and the swimming pool. It also contained Mrs. Ventura.
    The lady of the house was seated at an umbrella table and rose as I approached, quickly wrapping a saronglike skirt around a pair of slim hips. I assumed she was covering a bikini bottom rather than bare flesh but I wouldn’t swear to it. The hand, remember, is quicker than the eye. In this case a most regrettable verity.
    “Mr. Archy McNally, I presume,” she said, offering her hand.
    Hanna Ventura was a true blonde with big brown eyes, a bosom that taxed her white bikini top, a tiny waist and shapely tanned legs. It was easy to see how she had turned a grieving widower into an ardent suitor after one brief encounter.
    “Mrs. Ventura,” I said, taking her hand which was still cool from the chilled glass she had been clutching when I arrived. “It’s a pleasure.”
    “Oh, let’s not be formal. I’m just plain Hanna to my friends.”
    “And what a lovely name is Hanna,” I answered. “Did you know it’s derived from the Greek? It translates, ‘God has favored me.’ ”
    With a wave of her lovely hand that seemed to indicate her two acres of South County Road real estate and everything on it, she beamed. “He sure did. But how clever of you to know that. Won’t you sit down? That big ol’ pitcher of