McNally's Bluff (24 page)

The housekeeper, Mrs. Marsden, let me in. “Long time no see,” she said as she welcomed me into her spotless kitchen.

“I’m a working man, Mrs. Marsden.”

“I hear you’re now living in Juno with the policewoman,” she asserted as if speaking of the weather. There is nothing reticent about our Mrs. Marsden and there is nothing sacred in Palm Beach, except one’s bank balance.

I confirmed her pronouncement with the sardonic comment, “I see you and Ursi are still in daily communication.”

“What makes you think that?” she asked, and I believe she meant it. Subtlety was lost on Mrs. Marsden or so she pretended. “How come you’re using the back door? Has Lady Cynthia banished you from the kingdom?”

“I’m here to see Connie, and no one else, Mrs. Marsden,” I said hopefully, forgetting that he who only hopes is hopeless. “Is she in her office?”

“Where else would she be? In the pool?”

I believe Mrs. Marsden gets her repartee from lines Hollywood writers foisted off on poor Marjorie Maine such as the memorable “Cabbage has a cabbage smell.”

Connie looked harassed as she usually did when in the throes of one of Lady C’s extravaganzas. Her telephone console, which is the envy of the White House, the Pentagon and NASA, blinked red, green and blue lights. She deftly put callers on hold, removed others from call waiting and deported several unfortunates to call forwarding limbo.

“I told you,” she barked into the microphone she wore around her head like a telephone operator of yore, “the dancing pumpkins are to be in tights and tutus and tell the boys if they must pad themselves to do so modestly; the skeletons who auditioned are too fat, put out a call for anorexics; don’t try to substitute children for genuine munchkins; the mummy must wear briefs under his wrappings, last year two drunks pulled off the bandages and it was most embarrassing; make sure the cages’ holding the bats are securely bolted; the blood samples you sent are too watery and the vampire wants more air holes in his coffin if he’s to stay in it until midnight.

“Thanks, Max. No, Max, the heads are to roll in to the tune of ‘I Ain’t Got Nobody,’ not the headless horseman.”

She disconnected Max with a touch of a finger displaying a perfectly manicured purple-passion-painted nail. Seeing me she threw open her arms and cried, “Archy, have you come to take me away from all this?”

Bending, I planted a brotherly kiss on Connie’s cheek, taking in the sweetly erotic aroma of roses which always left me feeling anything but brotherly. Georgy is lavender and jasmine, Connie is roses and
caliente
spices. Georgy is fair. Connie is exotic. Georgy is the girl next door. Connie is the girl father warned you about. Combined, they represented the greatest threat to monogamy since the pill.

Today she wore white jeans that showed not a wrinkle, and a black blouse that I believe is called “off-the-shoulder.” Hardly a working girl’s ensemble, but then Connie Garcia is not Mrs. Trelawney and Lady Cynthia is not Prescott McNally—praise be to Zeus.

“I came, my dear, to gaze upon your lovely person and to learn what the upper echelons are saying about the murder of Marlena Marvel.”

“In other words you’re here to use me. You always used me, Archy. Alex worships me.”

I tilted my boater back on my head like Dana Andrews in any Dana Andrews picture. “We used each other, Connie.”

“I didn’t need cooking lessons and boring old movies.”

“I didn’t need padding.”

With that she burst into peals of laughter which was the unkindest cut of all. “If we’re going to be shipmates, Connie, I think we should call a truce. It’s very easy to lose someone at sea and, as I recall, you don’t swim. Carolyn Taylor has invited me to join the cast and crew of the next voyage into the wild blue yonder.”

“So Alex told me. By the way, Archy, we whisper the name Carolyn Taylor in this house unless we precede it with a fitting expletive.”

“What’s with her and Madame?”

“I think it has something to do with both of them coming from the wrong side of the tracks and giving a goose to their social status by marrying well. It took Madame five husbands, four with ready cash and one with a title. It took Carolyn only one to achieve the same position and Carolyn might be even richer, but she sure is younger.”

“And which does Madame envy most, the money or the youth?”

“I hope you’re kidding.” She reached for a box of Godiva chocolates and tempted me with, “Have a truffle.”

“Nix. I’m on a diet.”

Biting into the delicious morsel she said, “Don’t tell me Georgy’s learned how to cook.”

Defending my turf, I crowed, “She made a delicious roast chicken the other night, with a salad of fresh greens. And don’t you dare have another truffle.”

With a malicious laugh she picked another Godiva nugget out of the box. “Even I could make a roasted chicken.”

“Then why didn’t you, dearheart?”

“Because you always cooked, dearheart.”

“Truce,” I said.

“Truce, it is.” She closed the box of Godiva as the first step toward detente in the McNally/Garcia wars.

“Now tell me about the sailing parties with Carolyn Taylor of all people and that foolish boy.”

“Billy? Isn’t he a doll?”

“No, he is not a doll. He’s a pompous brat. And since when did Alex become a yachtsman?”

“He’s not a true yachtsman but he can pilot a boat. His uncle is an officer on a cruise line.”

“Really? My uncle is a veterinarian but I can’t bark. So what’s the story? Should I bring my rod and reel?”

“Honestly, Archy, I can’t tell you. It’s up to Alex—if he wants to bring you in on it. I’ve been sworn to secrecy.”

I didn’t press the issue because Connie would not break her word if her life depended on it. However, this only piqued my curiosity. How many mysteries could a guy ponder before his brain exploded? “Can you tell me what you hear about the Marlena Marvel homicide or did you take an oath on that, too?”

“It would be easier to tell you what I didn’t hear, Archy,” she said. “The husband, the maid, the lover...”

“Lover? Did she have a lover?”

“This is Palm Beach, Archy. It’s assumed she had a lover. Have you heard about the alien from the UFO, the Seminole warrior, the voodoo zombie, the...”

“Spare me, Connie. I came for erudition and I get malarkey. You know Mack Macurdy?”

“Of Mack and Marge? Sure. Not in the flesh, but I’ve seen the show. He’s responsible for most of the rumors, as I’m sure you know.”

“Have you ever heard any rumors about him and Carolyn Taylor?”

“Macurdy and Carolyn Taylor? Now that is hot news. What do you know?”

“That woman would bed a wooden Indian if she thought she could squeeze a nickel out of it,” came the sage words of Lady Cynthia Horowitz who stood in the doorway looking like a pillar of salt in a silver lamé jumpsuit, gold sandals and much glitter in her red (the color of the week) hair. “Why are you and Connie discussing that tart?”

“We weren’t,” I said. “I stopped by to ask Connie...” Here Connie, very casually, put a finger to her lips which signaled that I was not to say why I had stopped by. Lady C did not know about the sailing trips with Carolyn, I guessed, and it was worth Connie’s job if she found out. “I came by to see how you were getting on with your party and I was just leaving.”

“Tarry a while, lad. I hear you’re working for Matthew Hayes.” Before I could confirm or deny this, she moaned, “I’ve been trying to get him on the phone and all I get is that maid or the answering machine. She swears he’s always out and he doesn’t return my calls. I want him as my guest of honor.”

The nerve of the old biddy. “He’s prostrate with grief,” I challenged, hoping to embarrass her. (Ha!)

“Nonsense. I buried five husbands and never missed a party. My last, Sir Nigel, fell out of a tree where he was watching beetles fornicate and broke his neck on the very day I was having twelve to dinner, including royalty. Simms, he was the butler, and I put Nigel in the deep freeze and I told my guests Sir Nigel was indisposed, which wasn’t exactly a lie. It was a most successful dinner party.”

The woman has ice water flowing in her veins. “You were very brave, Lady Cynthia,” I complimented with great solemnity.

“Moxie, lad. It’s called moxie. Now what’s this rumor about Mack Macurdy and Carolyn Taylor?”

“Archy heard Carolyn Taylor is going to be a guest on Mr. Macurdy’s show,” Connie said, saving the moment, and her job. “Just a rumor, of course.”

“And not true,” Lady C declared with an assurance particular to the very rich. “Mack is going to bring a camera crew to the party and treat his audience to a look at the lifestyle of the Palm Beach elite.” To Connie, she announced, “I’ve decided to come as Helen of Troy. Get the Gallo boy on the phone and tell him to come as Paris. I believe Paris wore a pleated skirt and little else.” She hummed a few bars of Porter’s “I Love Paris.”

Deciding to rain on her parade, I asked, “But what about Fitz, Joe’s significant other? Who will she come as?”

“Yes, the charming Fitzwilliams gal,” Lady C sighed. “She’s not coming.”

“You mean you’re not inviting her?” I cried.

“Oh, I’m inviting her,” Lady C declared, “but she can’t make it.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Because her father’s bank handles my estate and if they wish to continue to do so, she can’t make it. Now Connie, you must call the undertakers and have them arrange the flowers...”

When I got to the Juno Cottage I lamented to Georgy, “I just remembered that I forgot to call you.”

“Well, you can give me the message now or forever hold your peace. What’s up?”

“Can you get the day after tomorrow off?”

“Archy,” she chastened, “the day after tomorrow is my day off. We’re going to Riviera Beach and taking the
Palm Beach Princess
casino cruise. The boys tell me the one-dollar slots have a twenty-five-thousand-dollar payoff.”

“Well, we’re going sailing, but not on the
Princess.
Connie and Alex are taking a yacht out of Miami and they’ve invited us. So hoist the mizzenmast, or the spinnaker, and anchors aweigh, mate.”

“Where is Alex getting the money to rent a yacht?” Georgy always asks the right questions.

“Actually, Carolyn Taylor is the hostess.”

“Carolyn Taylor? The woman in the Marlena Marvel case? What’s going on, mate?”

“I’ll tell you all about it over dinner, including my day in the salt mine.” I looked around our rather empty kitchen. “What have you done about dinner?”

“I made a reservation at Capri.”

“We can’t afford Capri,” I reprimanded my blonde goddess.

“I assumed we were going on the
Princess,
and if we hit the jackpot we could buy the Capri.”

“Oh, Georgy girl!”

I
’M STANDING IN LAKE WORTH’S
Bryant Park, just at the foot of the bridge that connects Lake Worth to Palm Beach island. This tranquil oasis with acres of lawn, inviting benches and piers that extend into the intracoastal waterway, is a favorite site for joggers, mothers with babes in strollers and senior citizens taking the sun and a snooze.

It is also the site favored for the, town’s municipal and social events, such as the annual Finnish Day festival celebrating Lake Worth’s Finnish population which some say is the largest outside of Finland, and more recently, the annual gay day’s colorful parade down Lake Avenue that terminates in Bryant Park.

This morning, as you can see, the area just behind me has been cordoned off with the police department’s familiar yellow tape. The joggers, mothers and seniors are milling about in awe and wonder, for their haven has been rudely violated by the discovery of a body lying, almost hidden, under the sloping structure of the bridge.

A jogger, Ms. Marilyn Anderson of Lake Worth, passing a few yards from the spot, saw what she thought was a homeless vagrant
—
most unusual for this community. Cutting short her run she left the park and hailed a passing patrol car. Office Kert Johanson immediately entered the park and, following Ms. Anderson’s directions, approached the man, tried to rouse him, and ascertained the man, who was well-dressed and clean-shaven, was in fact dead.

Officer Johanson returned to his car and radioed for help. In ten minutes an ambulance, paramedics and three patrol cars arrived on the scene. It is believed that one of the paramedics recognized the corpse as Mack Macurdy, co-host of the popular morning show aired on this network,
Breakfast with Mack and Marge.
This was confirmed by the driver’s license retrieved from Mr. Macurdy’s wallet.

For those of you who have just joined us expecting to see
Breakfast with Mack and Marge,
this is Joe Gallo for WPBQ reporting live from Bryant Park in Lake Worth where the shocking discovery of Mack Macurdy’s body was found by an early morning jogger. These are the facts to date: I received a call from Mrs. Macurdy an hour before show time asking if I could come to the studio and go on with her in place of Mr. Macurdy who had been missing since last night.

Mr. Macurdy left his apartment in Palm Beach last night, directly after dinner, telling his wife he was meeting with a prospective guest for their show. According to Mrs. Macurdy, it was not unusual for him, or her, to interview people before inviting them on the show and due to conflicting schedules, these interviews were often held in the evening. When Mr. Macurdy did not return home by three this morning, Mrs. Macurdy notified the Palm Beach police who ran a check of car accidents in the vicinity and queried local hospitals
—
all to no avail.

This morning, the police advised Mrs. Macurdy to go on the air and report his disappearance as the most likely way of locating him, or persons who may have seen him. Mrs. Macurdy called me to assist. Minutes before the show was to air, we received the call from the Lake Worth police telling us of Officer Johanson’s startling find.

Viewers may recall that Mr. and Mrs. Macurdy and I were present at the home of Matthew Hayes when his wife, the theatrical artiste Marlena Marvel, was felled by a fatal dose of digitalis poisoning. Since, both Mr. Macurdy and I have been reporting on that incident, now officially declared a wrongful death.