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awoke the next morning full of p. and v., eager to devote a day to detecting and sorry I lacked a meerschaum pipe and deerstalker cap. Unfortunately I also awoke an hour late, and by the time I traipsed downstairs my father had left for the office in his Lexus and mother and Ursi had taken the Ford to go provisioning. Jamie Olson was seated in the kitchen, slurping from a mug of black coffee.
    We exchanged matutinal greetings, and Jamie- our houseman and Ursi's husband-asked if I wanted a "solid" breakfast. Jamie is a septuagenarian with a teenager's appetite. His idea of a "solid" breakfast is four eggs over with home fries, pork sausages, a deck of rye toast, and a quart of black coffee-with maybe a dram of aquavit added for flavor. I settled for a glass of OJ, buttered bagel, and a cup of his coffee-strong enough to numb one's tonsils.
    "Jamie," I said, sitting across the table from him, "do you know Leon Medallion, the Willigans' butler?"
    "Uh-huh," he said.
    Our Swedish-born houseman was so laconic he made Gary Cooper sound like a chatterbox. But Jamie had an encyclopedic knowledge of local scandals-past, present, and those likely to occur. Most of his information came from the corps of Palm Beach servants, who enjoyed trading tidbits of gossip about their employers. It was partial recompense for tedious hours spent shining the master's polo boots or polishing milady's gems.
    "You ever hear anything freaky about Leon?" I asked. "Like he might be inclined to pinch a few pennies from Mrs. Willigan's purse or perhaps take a kickback from their butcher?"
    "Nope."
    "How about the cook and the maid? Also straight?"
    Jamie nodded.
    "I know Harry Willigan strays from the hearth," I said. "Everyone knows that. What about his missus? Does she ever kick over the traces?"
    The houseman slowly packed and lighted his pipe, an old discolored briar, the stem wound with adhesive tape. "Mebbe," he said. "I heard some hints."
    "Well, if you learn anything definite, pass it along to me, please. Their cat's been swiped."
    "I know."
    "Have you heard anything about the Gillsworths, the poet and his wife?"
    "She's got the money," Jamie said.
    "That I know."
    "And she's tight. He's on an allowance."
    "What about their personal lives? Either or both seeking recreation elsewhere?"
    "Haven't heard."
    "Ask around, will you?" I urged. "Just in a casual way."
    "Uh-huh," Jamie said. "The Miata could use a good wash. Get the salt off. You going to be around this morning?"
    "No," I said, "I have to hit the road. But I should be back late this afternoon. I'd appreciate it if you could get to it then."
    "Sure," he said and accepted with a nod the tenner I slipped him. I wasn't supposed to do that, and my father would be outraged if he knew. But Jamie and I understood the pourboire was for the information he provided, not a domestic chore. The Olsons were amply paid for managing the McNally household.
    I drove southward to the Willigans' hacienda. That ominous message sent to Lydia Gillsworth had given new urgency to my search for Peaches' abductors. It didn't seem incredible to me that the two cases might be connected; I had learned to accept the bizarreness of life.
    Leon Medallion opened the door to my ring, and if it wasn't so early in the morning I would have sworn the fellow was smashed. His pale blue eyes were bleary and his greeting was slurred, as if he had breakfasted on a beaker of the old nasty.
    He must have seen my astonishment because he said, "I ain't hammered, Mr. McNally. I got my allergies back again. I been sneezing up a storm and now I'm stuffed with antihistamines."
    "So it wasn't the cat after all?"
    "I guess not," he said mournfully. "But this place has enough molds and pollens to keep my peepers leaking for the rest of my life. You find Peaches?"
    "Not yet, Leon. That's why I stopped by-to talk to you and the rest of the staff. Is Mrs. Willigan home?"
    "Nah, she took off about a half-hour ago."
    "And Miss Trumble?"
    "In the pool