McNally's Bluff (26 page)

Tomorrow, Saturday, was out as I had that boat ride. “Tell him Monday is the best I can do. And get Marge’s cell number.”

Binky took a pad and pencil from my desk and jotted it down for me. “I’ll catch you on the noon newsbreak,” he said to his new idol. Well, at least he wasn’t humming “I Love Paris.”

When I got Marge on the phone my heart went out to her. “Archy,” she sobbed, “it’s so horrible. I’m home. Can you come right over?”

“I’m on my way,” I promised.

“Do you know where I live?”

“As a matter of fact, I don’t.”

“My dear Archy, you can always make me smile. Bless you.”

She gave me the name of her condo complex which I knew very well. The Macurdys were not poor.

A
S I PULLED INTO
the visitor’s parking space, I noticed a clique of men, about a half dozen, chatting and smoking just across the street, all but blocking the entrance to the Everglades Club. Reporters—distinguished by their inability to stand still, the pencils tucked behind their ears, and the slouch hats perched in a variety of angles on their heads.

Mack Macurdy had happily attained national attention with his unorthodox coverage of the Marlena Marvel murder and now his new widow was going to reap the dubious rewards. The Everglades regulars, who like to keep a low profile, would frown upon this conclave of fourth-estaters on the steps of their temple.

The doorman asked my business and I told him I was there to see Mrs. Macurdy.

“Your name, sir?”

“McNally.”

Looking a bit apologetic he asked, “May I see your ID, sir?”

“Are things that bad?” I griped, pulling my wallet out of my back pocket.

With a nod toward the front door, he answered, “That crowd out there storms the gate every half hour. In case you don’t know, several are her brothers, two are her uncles and one is an insurance claims adjuster.” He looked at my driver’s license photo, glanced at me, and handed it back.

“She’s expecting you, Mr. McNally. Four A. Fourth floor.”

Marge checked me out through the peep hole before unbolting the door. I walked into a spacious entrance foyer carpeted in a plush, teal blue, wall-to-wall. Beyond was an immense living room with a row of unadorned windows facing the Atlantic. It was all light, bright and airy, but the now solitary resident was anything but.

She fell into my open arms and sobbed hysterically. I patted her back, stroked her hair and said not a word. What could I say?

“I was mad at him,” she got out between sobs. “I hated what he was doing on the show—the way he was bossing everyone at the studio, including me—I wished him dead and now he is dead.”

More tears have been shed over answered prayers than those that go unfulfilled.

“We all have such thoughts,” I whispered into her hair. “Don’t dwell on it. You’re not responsible for what happened to Mack.”

She had been with the police all morning and I suspected this was the first time she was out of the public eye and able to vent her emotions. She felt soft and warm and vulnerable in my arms and I had to keep reminding myself the reason I was here. “Let’s go inside and sit, Marge.”

Standing back I was shocked to see her red, swollen eyes and pitiful face. She must have been made up for the show this morning and never removed it. Her tears and a succession of tissues had streaked the mascara and grease paint, leaving her looking like a little girl who had gotten into Mommy’s vanity case.

The large room was furnished in white leather couches and easy chairs. The tables were glass and chrome. The wall art displayed postmodernism at its nadir, and a bar at one end of the room (more glass and chrome) was backed by a mirrored wall.

Seeing my rather startled gaze, Marge said, “It came furnished. Mack loved it.” This caused her to giggle nervously, and I joined in.

I declared the decor “As warm and cozy as an igloo.”

“The network rented it and they pay the monthly tab. It’s one of the perks of our contract.”

I wanted to ask her if I could see the bedroom, but didn’t dare. We sat on the slippery leather couch, Marge’s hand in mine. “I heard Joe’s coverage this morning so we can skip all that. Did you ED the body?”

She nodded and shuddered. “It’s horrible, Archy.” I feared she was going to resume the crying jag but, thankfully, she didn’t.

“You mean Mack’s death?”

“No,” she cried. “I mean, yes...”

“Would you like a drink?” I offered.

“No. I don’t want to start that. Not now. It’s too early.”

“Can I brew a pot of coffee?”

“No, Archy, thank you. If I have another cup of coffee today I’ll be awake for the rest of my life. Have you ever tasted the coffee at the county morgue?”

I thought of Georgy’s instant blend as I shook my head. Horrible was a strange way of expressing grief, so I asked again, “What was horrible, Marge?”

“What they did to him,” she said, her eyes glassing over.

“I thought he wasn’t abused physically. That’s what Joe reported.”

She was crying again. “He wasn’t.” She touched her forehead. “Here. It was painted here.”

“A message?” I was stunned.

“A sign,” she said. “An occult sign. A five-pointed star within a circle.”

A pentagram within a circle—where had I seen that before?

“It was painted on his forehead,” she sobbed. “It was grotesque.”

“Painted with what, Marge? Lipstick, crayon, ink?”

She buried her face in her hands. “Blood—it was painted in blood—the medical examiner confirmed it was blood. And there was something in his mouth.”

“Easy, easy,” I pleaded. “You don’t have to tell me now. Take a deep breath and look up at me.”

Raising her head she turned to me and recounted, “There was a leaf stuffed into his mouth. Do I have to tell you what it was?”

Foxglove. It couldn’t be clearer if the murderer had left a calling card. Or had he left a calling card? The pentagram and circle. I could see it in my mind’s eye. Could see it branded into human flesh. Whose? When? Where?

Had some crazy satanic cult taken revenge on Mack for blaspheming their beliefs? Or had some clever assassin planted the red herrings to make the police think just that? Any more red herrings and we could open a fish store.

It was now perfectly clear why the police were keeping this under wraps. After the way Macurdy had incited the public with his dark forces routine they would have a riot on their hands if this went public.

First the maze, now an occult sign and leaf, to keep our eyes on the hole instead of the donut.

“The police are putting out a call for that silly witch and Zemo the nut, as well as the poor old Seminole Mack dug up and a few others he had on the show,” Marge was saying with disgust. “They’re all phonies and the police know it.”

“But they must do it,” I told her. “They can leave no stone unturned because under the one ignored could lie the answer.”

“You don’t believe this was the work of some demonic cult or coven, do you, Archy?”

“No, my dear, I don’t. I think there’s a connection between Mack and Marlena Marvel.”

“I told you Mack’s euphoria began the day after Marlena’s death and you said it began when Mack found the goal.” She was more composed now, her interest in the mystery usurping for the moment her anguish over this morning’s cataclysm. “You wanted to know the name of the helicopter service Mack employed for his ride over the goal. You think he discovered the key to the grid from that ride, don’t you?”

“I think, Marge, he discovered more than that. Remember I said Mack knew something, but he didn’t know what he knew until after Marlena’s murder. I’ll qualify that and now say he didn’t know the
value
of his discovery until after her death.”

“He knew who killed Marlena,” she concluded.

“No,” I said, “but I think he knew how it was done, which might, or might not, be the same thing. I’ve learned that Mack took a telescopic camera with him on that helicopter trek and from those photos got a clear picture of the grid. Hence, he found the goal.” Not wishing to speak ill of the dead, I didn’t tell her that her husband took those photos for no other reason than to snoop and obtain a key to the grid.

“He hired the copter and the cameraman at his own expense, but he never told me about the still photos,” she assured me. “I should have known he was up to something when he kept insisting that he would make the goal.”

“I think he also found something else,” I repeated.

“If he was killed because of what he knew about the maze, isn’t it obvious who his killer is?” she cried.

“You mean Matthew Hayes, and I’m afraid it’s anything but obvious, Marge. All I’m doing is guessing that Mack found more than the key to the grid on that romp. A wild guess at that. I talked to Hayes this morning and he seems as shocked by Mack’s murder as the rest of us.”

I purposely downplayed my distrust of Hayes and his maid because I wanted to broach another candidate for Mack’s elusive angel. Given the time and place, it was a most delicate undertaking. Carefully choosing my words, I asked, “Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to help Mack financially? I mean put up money for his TV pilot?”

“You mean a woman?” she shot back, a teasing smile on her lips. I must have forgotten I was talking to a very perceptive lady. “Don’t be embarrassed, Archy. Mack had a lot of female fans and given our venue many of them were rich and unscrupulous—and Mack wasn’t faithful.”

“I didn’t ask you that,” I cut in.

“But I’m telling you anyway. Mack and I have not been getting along since we came down here to do the show. In fact I would have left him in New York if the deal with the network hadn’t included the two of us, as a team.”

Was she telling me this as a way of saying that if I wanted to make a pitch, the road was clear? To say that I wasn’t interested would be a lie. But again, this was neither the time nor the place to test her motive, tempted though I was. Am I a cad, or only human, or is there no difference?

“This doesn’t mean his death is any less traumatic for me. Especially the way he died. We had many good years...” and she again broke down.

I waited for the moment to pass before asking, “Was Carolyn Taylor one of those women?”

“You mean the woman who was left a fortune when her husband died? She was at the party, wasn’t she? Mack never mentioned her to me—but then he never discussed any of his liaisons. Mack was crude, not sadistic. Why do you think he knew her?”

“Just another wild guess and too complicated to explain at the moment, so forget I asked. Do you know who Mack went to see last night?”

Marge shook her curly head. “I don’t know. The police have asked me that again and again, and I don’t know. I was furious with the guests he was booking so when he said he was off to interview a prospect I pretended disinterest and never asked who it was. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” I assuaged her. “What will happen with the show?”

She shrugged uncaringly. “Tomorrow is Saturday, and we’re dark on Saturday. After that, who knows? Reruns until something is worked out.”

“Will you continue alone?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know what I’ll do, or even if they’ll want me without Mack. Would you like to be his replacement?”

Was the double entendre intended or accidental? She looked at her hands and I at the ceiling. It was time to leave, or perhaps past the time to leave. “Have you thought about the arrangements? For Mack, that is.”

“Private. I don’t want a circus. Does that sound selfish?”

“Not at all. You’re been through hell today, and it’s just beginning. More of the same you don’t need.” I began getting up. “Now I think you should get some rest, but first take a long hot soak and scrub your face. Your freckles are beginning to show.”

“Sally, the makeup person at the studio, tells me it takes more grease paint to hide my freckles than they had to use on Katharine Hepburn. I was flattered.”

“You should be,” I said.

“Are you going to ride over the maze in a helicopter?” she suddenly blurted.

“I intend to do just that, Marge.”

“Please be careful,” she implored. “If that secret got Mack killed...”

“We don’t know what got Mack killed,” I said. “It could very well be just what it appears to be—the work of a madman.”

“You don’t believe that,” she challenged.

“Go wash your face.”

“It’s an outrage,” Mrs. Trelawney charged the moment I stepped off the elevator. “That nice man. What is happening to our town, Archy? Are there demons among us?”

How many of Mack Macurdy’s loyal fans were in a state of shock and fear this day? Now I could clearly understand why Marge wanted a private interment. Ancient photos of the weeping women queuing up to view the remains of Valentino were here evoked.

“We don’t need demons, Mrs. Trelawney. We have just plain folks to do their work.”

“Who would do such a thing?” she persisted.

“Someone who didn’t like your matinee idol. Is the boss in?”

“Yes, and he’s asking for you. Oh, yesterday that awful Mr. Hayes called several times and was most rude.”

“It’s his nature,” I said, “and I got back to him. I’ll register your complaint when next we meet.”

“Please do,” Mrs. Trelawney ordered.

Father looked up from his work as I opened the door and lectured, “The first thing I want you to do is go see your mother. She’s frantic over this new atrocity and worried about you. They say this Macurdy was defaced with a witch’s mark. Is it true?”

So it was already public knowledge and you didn’t have to be a whiz kid to figure out how that came to be. One of the policemen whispered it to his wife, or girlfriend, or boyfriend, and he or she whispered it to their—etc. etc. etc. And let us not forget the jogger who was probably on the horn with everyone she knew as soon as the police released her from custody. By now the rumor had reached Miami and was on its way to Key West.

I sat, wearily. “It’s true, sir.” Then I unburdened my mind as well as my feet.

“This is a bad business, Archy.”

“You’re not telling me anything I don’t know. I’m not sure if Macurdy’s death has anything to do with my case, or if the altercation between Laddy Taylor and his stepmother has anything to do with either murder. I’ve exhausted all the few leads I had and now my only hope is learning something from up there,” I said, jerking a thumb to heaven.