"You have a point," I agreed. "Very well, it's a deal."

I gave him the two names, Hector Johnson and Reuben Hagler, and the latter's license tag.

"Johnson?" the sergeant repeated, and I could hear interest quickening in his voice. "Isn't he the guy you're running a credit trace on?"

"That's correct."

"And his daughter was the model for Hawkin's last painting?"

"Yes," I said. "Except for 'Untitled.' "

"Uh-huh," Al said. "All right, I'll see what I can do. Don't expect a report tomorrow, Archy. These things take time. But eventually I'll get back to you."

"A consummation devoutly to be wished," I said.

"When are you going to learn to talk like a human being?" he demanded and hung up.

I showered and dressed informally for my dinner at the Pelican Club with Connie Garcia that evening. I thought I looked rather posh in a jacket of carmine houndstooth check and slacks in what I considered a muted olive plaid. But during the cocktail hour the guv commented that I looked like a sideshow barker, which I thought unnecessarily cruel. But then the old man considers an ascot an affectation so his sartorial opinions really can't be taken seriously.

I arrived early at the Club and put Mr. Pettibone to the test by ordering an Emerald Isle. Again I failed to stump him. He just nodded and said, "Gin, green creme de menthe, bitters," and set to work. The result was quite tasty but packed such a wallop I thought it best to switch to Labatt's Ale, and I was sipping that when Connie arrived.

She looked delicious, as usual, but that woman would be ravishing in a cast-iron muumuu. Fortunately she was wearing a silk jacket and shorts in a sea foam shade that complemented her suntan perfectly. Her long black hair was up in a chignon, and she was the cynosure of all eyes- including mine. We moved immediately to the dining room before Leroy's whole suckling pig was reduced to a glistening skeleton.

Glancing around at the crowd of famished diners I was happy to see that Americans were finally getting off their pernicious health kick. I mean there was a time when, scared silly by nutritionists, everyone seemed to believe that if they limited their diet to oats, turnips, and other goopy stuff, they'd live forever. Rubbish! Man does not live by tofu alone. Go for it, America!

We had roasted pork chops and sweet-and-sour sauce, minted noodles, and a salad of Arugula and endive with blue cheese dressing. Crusty pumpernickel baguettes. Dessert was a passion fruit tart served with fresh pineapple ice cream. If all that doesn't put your gastric juices in full flood, go back to your yogurt and see if I care.

Connie was in a bright, chatty mood that evening. As we gourmandized and steadily emptied our bottle of cab, she prattled on about Lady Cynthia Horowitz's activities and the latest Palm Beach scandals, real and alleged. It was during dessert that she asked, "Want to hear the latest rumor?"

"Of course," I said. "Gossip is mother's milk to me."

"Remember your asking me about Hector Johnson? Well, the talk is that he's taking a close interest in Silas Hawkin's widow. In fact, from what I hear, the two of them are what used to be called an item."

"No kidding?" I said, feigning a mild but not excessive interest. "He's pitching her, is he?"

"Apparently," Connie went on. "It started the day after Silas was killed. Now Johnson is at her house almost every day, and they've been seen together all over the place."

"Comforting the bereaved, no doubt."

"Oh sure," she scoffed. "Louise Hawkin also happens to be a well-put-together lady and probably stands to inherit a bundle. Johnson just moved faster than the other middle-aged bachelors in Palm Beach."

"I wonder what the daughter thinks of it."

"Marcia? Oh, she's a ding-a-ling; everyone knows that. About a year ago she was picked up at midnight wandering stark naked down Ocean Boulevard."

"I never heard that one," I said. "Drunk? Or stoned?"

"I don't think so," Connie said. "Just a crazy, mixed-up kid."

"Aren't we all?" I said lightly. "You know what I'd like at the bar?"

"A stomach pump?" she suggested.

"Slivovitz," I said. "To settle the old tumtum."

"Oh God," she said. "I hope you won't start howling at the moon again."

"I've never done that," I protested. "Have I?"

"Yes," Connie said.

She had recently purchased a new car, a white Ford Escort. Not enough pizzazz for my taste, but Connie loved it. She led the way back to her place and I followed in the Miata.

Connie lives in a high-rise condo on the east shore of Lake Worth. Her one-bedroom apartment is small but trig, and the view from her little balcony is tremendous. It's not really my home-away-from-home, but I had been there many, many times and knew where she kept the Absolut (in the freezer) and that you had to jiggle the handle of the toilet to stop it flushing.

We sprawled on her rattan couch, shoes off, and just relaxed awhile after that humongous meal. We were so comfortable with each other that we weren't bothered by long silences. Connie put on a Spanish tape and we listened to a great chantootsie sobbing. I think her songs were all about love betrayed but my Spanish isn't all that good.

The tape ended and Connie didn't flip it, for which I was thankful. She rose and held out her hand. I clasped it and trailed after her into the bedroom. It was a very feminine boudoir with lace ruffles on the bedspread and French dolls propped on the pillows. Over the bed was a framed poster of the movie Casablanca. Connie has a thing for Bogart.

We undressed as slowly and unconcernedly as an old married couple while we wondered if that passion fruit tart might not have been better with pistachio ice cream. Very domestic. Then we slid into bed, and those B-12s didn't let me down.

Connie was a languid lover that night, and it surprised me; she's usually quite kinetic. But I was grateful; I was more in the mood for violins than electric guitars. So it was sweet to hear murmurs rather than yelps and to embrace softly rather than jounce.

Then I think we both may have drowsed a bit because when I glanced at her illuminated bedside clock it was close to two a.m.

"I think I better hit the road," I said in a low voice.

Connie opened her eyes. "Yes," she said. "Super evening, Archy. Thank you."

"Thank you," I said. "And happy dreams."

She watched me dress. "Who is she, Archy?" she asked quietly.

I paused with one leg in my slacks and one leg out, an awkward posture as any guilty lad will tell you. "Who is whom?" I inquired, expecting the worst and getting it.

"That woman you had lunch with at Mizner Park yesterday."

I resumed getting into my trousers. "I suppose it would be fruitless to deny it," I said.

"Yes," she said steadily, "it would."

"What if I told you she was my cousin?" I said hopefully.

"Then by actual count she would be the seventeenth female cousin you've claimed."

I decided to be absolutely honest-a dreadful mistake. "The lady in question," I said, "is Theodosia Johnson, daughter of Hector. Chauncey Wilson Smythe-Hersforth hopes she will become his fiancee. McNally and Son have been requested by Chauncey's mother to investigate Theodosia's credentials and make certain she is worthy of becoming a member of the Smythe-Hersforth clan."

"And part of your investigation included taking her to lunch in Boca Raton?"

"There is no adequate substitute for a personal interview," I said piously.

Connie turned her head away from me and stared at the wall. "Son," she said, "it's coming out your ears."

I finished dressing and got my pale pink shirttail caught in the zipper of my slacks. I tried to free it to no avail. The tail hanging out looked like-well, you know what it looked like. Connie turned back to watch my struggle. She began to giggle.