"I'm having a vodka gimlet," she said. "There's a pitcher in the fridge. Would you like one?"

I considered this invitation for a long time-possibly three seconds. "Yes," I said, "thank you."

It was an excellent gimlet, not so tart that it puckered one's lips but sharp and energizing. Mrs. Hawkin patted the cushion beside her and I obediently took my place. Good boy! Now sit up and beg.

"How did you make out with Si?" she inquired lazily, her drawl obviously an attempt to conceal a real curiosity.

"Fine," I said. "I only had a few questions. Your husband was very cooperative."

"He was?" she said, mildly astonished. "Questions about what?"

"Whom," I said. "A mutual acquaintance." I hoped she wouldn't push it. She didn't.

"You're a lawyer?" she asked suddenly.

"No, ma'am," I said. "My father is an attorney but I am not."

"Does he do divorce work? A friend of mine is looking for a good divorce lawyer and asked if I could recommend someone."

"Sorry," I said. "McNally and Son doesn't handle divorces. But if you like, I can ask my father. I'm sure he can suggest someone who would be willing to talk to your friend. Shall I do that?"

"Yes. Let me know as soon as possible."

"Of course," I said.

She sipped her gimlet, stared at the high ceiling, and ignored me. Good boy! Now lie down and play dead.

She was a heavy-bodied woman with an attractive mastiff face: very strong, very determined. I decided I would rather have her for a friend than an enemy. That may sound simple, but there are some people, men and women, of whom you are instinctively wary, knowing they could be trouble.

I finished my drink, rose, and expressed thanks for her hospitality. She gazed at me thoughtfully but made no reply. So I slunk away, grateful to be out of her presence.

I can't explain exactly why. Just that I was conscious of a very deep anger there with which I could not cope, and had no desire to.

I retraced my route and entered the main house through the door to the Florida room. I could have circled around and reclaimed my Miata on the bricked driveway, but I wanted to learn the name of the pleasant, chirpy-voiced maid who had ushered me in.

Instead, I found Marcia Hawkin wandering about, hugging her elbows. I was about to bid her a polite farewell when she accosted me-and accosted is a mild word for her attitude. She was in my face.

"Did you go to daddy's show last night?" she demanded.

"Why, yes, Miss Hawkin," I said as softly as I could. "I did attend the exhibit."

"It was a circus, wasn't it?" she challenged. "A bloody circus."

"Not really," I said cautiously. "Not much different from a hundred other similar affairs."

"And I suppose she was there," she said bitterly.

Complete confusion. Did she mean Mrs. Hawkin or the cynosure of the evening?

"She?" I repeated. "Your stepmother or Theodosia Johnson?"

"You know who I mean," she said darkly. "The whore!"

That was rough stuff that not only shocked but left me as flummoxed as before. To whom was she referring? All I could do at the moment was stare at her, utterly bewildered.

I cannot say she was an unattractive woman. Quite young. Tall and attenuated. But there was a brittleness about her I found a mite off-putting. She seemed assembled of piano wire and glass, ready to snap or shatter at any moment.

She stalked away from me and stood staring through an open window at her father's studio. I judged it would be wise to make a quiet and unobtrusive exit. To tell you the truth, I had enough of naked human passions for one morning. I felt like I had been wrung out hard and hung up wet. I murmured a courteous goodbye and slipped away. I don't believe she was even aware of my going.

I loitered in the entrance hallway a moment, hoping 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.

The 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-1980s, 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 myself as an honorable chap, and if I were married it would mean that never again could I look at a dishy woman with lust in my heart. That is what scares me: that I would be incapable of resisting temptation, and so my self-esteem would evaporate, let alone the trust of my mate.