McNally's Bluff (11 page)

“What would you like, Archy?”

In my gabardine girdle I thought it best to go easy on the victuals. “I think one scrambled egg and a slice of dry rye toast.”

“You feeling sick, Archy?” Ursi inquired.

“I’m trying to lose a few pounds so I can fit into my suit,” I admitted.

“Which suit is that, Archy?”

“The one I’m wearing.”

Before leaving I stopped to visit with mother in the greenhouse which is more an ICU for her begonias than a botanical incubator. I so enjoy seeing her in this setting where the morning sun, filtered through the tinted glass, casts her in an angelic glow. Here, going about her work in straw bonnet, apron and gardening gloves, her smiling face reflects a serenity her medication can’t duplicate.

She tried to brash a smudge from her cheek as I bent to kiss it and only succeeded in making it worse. “Oh, what a lovely shirt, Archy. Yellow is my favorite color, you know.”

I also know that any color I choose to wear suddenly becomes her favorite hue. “I hope you’re not paying any attention to the nonsense Ursi tells me is being beamed into unsuspecting homes this lovely morning. Remember what I said last night about Mr. Mack Macurdy.”

With a wave of her gloved hand, she boasted, “I’ve lived long enough to know when my leg is being pulled. I grew up when we all had our own personal fortune teller called a Ouija board. It said I was going to marry a prince.”

“Well, you certainly married a man who thinks he’s one,” I teased.

She laughed and pretended to chide me for poking fun at father. “I’m glad you’re taking this for what it’s worth,” I said. “The mystery of poor Marlena Marvel will soon be resolved with nary a ghost nor, goblin figuring in the final solution.”

Putting down her miniature hoe she looked up at me and said, “You know, Archy, we mustn’t think all things can be explained scientifically, either now or in the future. We’ve all had experiences that defy the laws of logic. My mother and grandmother talked of strange occurrences in then-lives they credited to divine intervention. Miracles are the foundation of most religions, remember, so don’t stick your nose in the air at all things mystic because you might end up tripping over a sleeping gnome and falling flat on your face.”

The woman I had come to reassure at a time of mass hysteria had summed it all up in a few well-chosen words.

Keep an open mind, and in matters of faith always hedge your bets. “I will remember that, Mother, but I doubt if a gnome carried Marlena from her bedroom to the maze. She was a very large lady.”

“Will you be involved?” she asked yet again.

“I honestly don’t know, Mother, but let’s hope the police have it all wrapped up before the day is over. I understand they’re giving this top priority, so keep your fingers crossed—or shouldn’t I say that?”

“It can’t hurt,” she maintained.

When I bent to kiss the smudge, she wanted to know if I had made my plane reservations for the trip north.

“I don’t think I’ll book a flight, Mother.”

“Then how will you get there?”

“I thought a broomstick built for two would be just the thing.”

“Off with you, Archy McNally, and do bring Georgia to dinner before too long—and Connie, too, I think—Oh, I’m so confused.”

“Francois Marie Arouet, otherwise known as Voltaire, said we should all tend to our own gardens, Mother.”

“As you can see, that’s just what I’m doing.”

I gave herb a beep as I drove the Miata into the underground garage of the McNally Building, parked, and took the elevator directly to my office. The monster’s little red eye blinked in greeting as I entered the converted utility closet that has my name on the door. For years I avoided getting hooked up to what is called voice mail which, by the bye, I believe is a contradiction of terms. Mail is something you read, not something you listen to. A tag I find more suitable for the red-eyed monster is squawk box.

Mrs. Trelawney flatly refused to continue to take my messages when I was out of the office which, being a highpriced snoop, is most of any working day. To make her point she had the temerity to disconnect the link that transferred my calls to her on the third ring. Being cut off from the outside world I acquiesced to her demands, grudgingly, and joined the twenty-first century.

Now, when I press the button, an electronic voice from Hades announces, “You have four messages.”

Click. “Archy, it’s Georgy. What is going on down there? Joe’s name is in all the papers and his puss is all over the television. Your fancy party ends up a Murder One case and Joe’s playing show-and-tell on the evening news. Last night he did a duet with a foxglove plant and said it was what witches used to garnish the goulash like it was oregano. That Fitz girl got her picture in our local rag with the caption saying she stood by Mr. Gallo throughout his history-making broadcast. I’ll bet she did. Call me. I’ll be at the Juno barrack all day doing paperwork—and oiling my revolver. I’ll expect you for dinner tonight. It’s roast chicken with a foxglove salad.”

I found a bottle of extra-strength aspirin in my top desk drawer, opened it, removed two tablets and took them straight.

Click. “It’s Connie. Lady Cynthia Horowitz requests the honor of your presence for cocktails this evening at six. It’s a command performance, so be there. Lady C has flipped her lid over the Marlena Marvel uproar and wants to get all the facts straight from the horse’s mouth. Get that look off your face, Archy, it’s better than being called upon when that animal’s other end is evoked. You know Lady C never gets up before noon but today she had the housekeeper, Mrs. Marsden, bring in her café au lait at eight, practically dawn around here, so she could watch the Macurdys’ show.

“Did you see it? What a hoot. The only thing Mack left out was little Eva running barefoot over the ice with bloodhounds snapping at her derriére. But it gave Lady C the brilliant idea of giving a Halloween party and inviting everyone who was at Le Maze the other night, especially Joe Gallo, if you please—or even if you don’t please. She’s going to have Witch Hazel tell fortunes and Count Zemo cast horoscopes. Costumes are de rigueur and Madame plans to be Venus de Milo if she can figure out what to do with her arms. Do you think Alex and I should come as Frankenstein and his bride? Alex is so tall, and his shoulders are so broad, he would hardly need any padding. But what a shame to disguise his lovely face.

“Are you working for Hayes? Madame wants to invite him and the maid, Tilly—what a name! Is Hayes really three feet high? He can come as a Munchkin. Ha-ha. Call me.”

I discarded the bottle of extra-strength aspirin and rummaged through my desk drawers for something more potent—like arsenic.

Click. “Adam? This is Eve, a lady on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Did you see the show this morning? Well, if you think it was the pits tune in tomorrow for an interview with a woman who claims she was healed by Marlena, another who claims she was poisoned by Marlena and a man who claims he was Marlena’s lover when she was Molly Malone in Des Moines. They’re crawling out of the woodwork and Mack is booking them without bothering to screen them first. Our producer is delighted because our ratings have soared and there’s talk that we might be picked up for national syndication.

“Witch Hazel brought a flask to the set which I’m sure was filled with booze, and proceeded to lace her coffee with it every time she was off camera. She was practically comatose before the hour ended and people called asking if she had gone into a trance. Count Zemo couldn’t keep his hand off my knee and suggested he read my horoscope in his motel room this evening. Mack keeps calling Hayes, begging him to appear on the show, and has offered the maid, Tilly, a fortune for one appearance—and you and Eberhart are on his hit list.

“Help! Can we have a quiet drink this evening? I need a shoulder, but your rib will do.”

I forgot the arsenic in anticipation of a tête-á-tête with Palm Beach’s newest star. What a gal. In the midst of chaos she’s able to keep her sense of humor and share it with one in need. I was still smiling when...

Click. “Matthew Hayes here. I hired you but I don’t remember firing you. So where were you all day yesterday when the police were all over my house and maze, looking for clues? Did they find anything? How the hell should I know. They don’t tell me anything, they just ask foolish questions like I know the answers when I know as much as they do, which is zilch.

“Have you talked to them? Will they level with you? In my dealings with the police I’ve always found that a well-greased palm keeps them from working my side of the street. You have my permission to spread the wealth but don’t go hog wild. My pockets are deep, but they don’t reach China. I’m a grieving widower but no one in this sunbaked paradise shows any respect for my plight. I’d like to see you at your earliest convenience which, according to my schedule, is noon today.”

The pipsqueak. The nerd. The contemptuous braggart. Grease palms? Matthew. Hayes was a sleazebag and if I went to work for him it would be for one reason only—to prove he knows more about his wife’s death than he’s fessing up to.

POP! A thousand-watt bulb lit up in the balloon over my head and—by Jupiter, I would do it. I would swallow my pride and do it. For the first time in my career I would take on a client for the sole purpose of exposing him as an iniquitous fabulist.

Unethical? When you’re tiptoeing through the trash you’re bound to get your feet dirty, and I had no choice. What better place to learn the secret of the maze than in Le Maze itself, and Matthew Hayes has just opened the door to his nemesis. The sire would remind me that one is considered innocent until proven guilty and I would abide by that dictum, giving Hayes every chance to recant any complicity in the crime.

I wouldn’t grovel to his offensive demands but I would bend just enough to have him believe he had nailed his mark. Nor would I be the first McNally to play the fool and have the last laugh. My grandfather, Freddy McNally, was a clown with the Minsky circuit who bought Florida acreage for peanuts and sold it for gold.

This decision had me feeling full of P and V and raring to go. The game is afoot, as a predecessor used to say, and I was off and running sans my Watson who has forsaken me for financial gain. Not to worry, I had Georgy girl and her well-oiled revolver.

Prioritizing my time, the first thing I did was call the damsel in distress. Thanks to the number of times I had called Marge to decline her offers on mother’s behalf, her number was in my Rolo.

“This is Zemo’s brother Count Dracula, inviting you to indulge in a bloody Mary with me this Very evening.”

“Archy? Thank goodness. I thought it was another kook who knew Marlena and was willing to tell all for a modest honorarium. Are you free this evening?”

“How about the Four Seasons for a drink at six? You’ll have to take a rain check for dinner.”

“A drink and some sane talk would be fine. I’m not putting you out, I hope?”

“Not at all. The only thing I had going was a date with an Egyptian mummy but she got tied up.”

“Ugh!” Marge responded.

“Sorry. Does hubby know you’ll be clinking glasses with a handsome young man this evening, or should I beware Tarzan on the prowl?”

“Mack is so wrapped up in his sudden success he couldn’t care if I were dating a blond surfer from South Beach. He’s having dinner with our director and producer. I declined on the grounds that enough is enough. I’ve got three calls waiting, Archy. Six at Four Seasons.”

Had she implied that a blond surfer from South Beach would be more a threat to Mack than me? My ego was bruised, but it would heal.

Next, I called Georgy. “Don’t hold dinner for me and keep the foxglove chilled. I’ll be late.”

“Why?” she questioned.

“I have a date for drinks with a lovely lady at the popular Four Seasons. That’s why.”

“Oh, Archy, be serious.”

Always tell the truth when you don’t want others to know what you’re up to because the truth is the last thing they’ll believe.

Again stating the facts, I said, “I’m taking the Marlena Marvel case for her husband.”

“I thought you didn’t like him.”

“I don’t, but it’s got so much play in the press and on television I think I should jump on the bandwagon. It can only enhance my already impressive reputation.”

“Meaning there’s more to it than you want to repeat on the phone.”

“You are so bright, Georgy girl.”

“Are you going to work with Joe?”

“Joe, my dear, has teamed up with Binky Watrous,” I informed her.

She was still laughing when I hung up.

The next damsel on my prioritized list was Consuela Garcia.

“Lady Cynthia’s residence.”

“The horse’s mouth is calling to tender his regrets. I have a sore throat and I’ve better things to do than listen to her blab about her Halloween party where she will parade around in her seventy-five-year-old birthday suit. I also have a suggestion as to where she can put her arms, but decorum expurgates the thought.”

“Madame will not like it, Archy.”

“Then Madame will have to lump it.”

“Are you working for Hayes?”

“That’s for me to know, and you to find out.”

“You’re having a hissy fit, Archy.”

“If I am it’s because you took Joe Gallo to the club for drinks, thereby getting him a trailer at the Palm Court. Al Rogoff is not thrilled.”

“Then Al Rogoff can lump it. What’s it to you, Archy?”

“You were scrutinizing that poor boy on behalf of your lady boss. Admit it, Connie.”

“Don’t be silly,” she said, knowing how silly that sounded.

“You are a dealer in human flesh, Consuela Garcia, and should go to the party as the bride of Simon Legree.”

“That’s rich, coming from a robber of cradles.”

“People in glass houses...”

“I must go, Archy. Good day.”

“Before you do,” I persisted, “can you tell me what Alex was doing with Carolyn Taylor at a marina in Miami?”

“That’s for me to know, and you to find out.”

Showing restraint, I calmly hung up the phone, sat at my desk, buried my head in my arms and cried.