McNally's Bluff (5 page)

Eberhart and I followed Hayes who sped through the aisles like a mouse who had mastered the labyrinth and knew just where to find his reward. Along the way we crossed paths with the meandering officers several times. I gave Al a wink and he gave me the finger.

Hayes finally came to a halt by a cut in the hedge. “The goal,” he announced, stepping back to allow Eberhart and me to enter.

In the artificial light the sundial’s face appeared to be grinning at us. Lying at its base was Marlena Marvel. She appeared to be quite dead.

I
MPOSSIBLE,” LIEUTENANT EBERHART SAID
for the tenth time—but who’s counting? We were sitting in the kitchen of Le Maze at a refectory table whose provenance was questionable but if pressed I would guess Grand Rapids. The catering crew swarmed about us wrapping and packing the aborted buffet goodies. I believe it is customary for the staff to divvy up any leftovers for their own consumption and, were this indeed the case, tonight’s boys and girls were in for a feast of epicurean proportions.

There was the crabmeat Lolly was so rudely interrupted from devouring, lobster tails nestled in artificial shells, whole slabs of filet mignon waiting to be sliced, deviled eggs and sturgeon eggs commonly known as caviar. The peeled shrimp, oysters and clams on the half shell were residing atop crushed ice while the baked goods awaited on hot plates amid a profusion of salads, side dishes, sauces and exotic dips. That salsa and stuffed celery sticks were not on the menu attests to the fine quality of the presentation.

The lieutenant was grilling me as we both picked at the smorgasbord the waiters were carrying from the great room to the kitchen table before it disappeared into silver foil, plastic wrap and Ziploc bags in sizes small, medium, large and humongous. The latter could hold a leftover baby T. Rex. In fiction the police do not drink while on duty but O. Eberhart had obviously never curled up with H. Poirot so didn’t know he should have refused the champagne I confiscated from a tray that held a dozen glasses of the bubbly. A very nice Moët, I believe.

“The chopped liver is delicious,” Eberhart observed, licking his lips.

“Pâté de foie gras,” I corrected.

“What’s that?”

“The chopped liver, Lieutenant. Actually it’s the bloated liver of a goose that’s been force-fed till its stomach explodes.”

With that, he surrendered the pâté for wrapping. “I wish you hadn’t told me that, McNally.”

“Try the roe, Lieutenant,” I recommended.

He glanced at the offerings whizzing by like the fare on a lazy Susan and helped himself. “I’d rather have the caviar.”

“Whatever your heart and stomach desire, Lieutenant.” If Oscar was going to rise socially I would strongly recommend he begin by
Mastering the Art of French Cooking
(a la Julia Child) before breaking bread with his betters.

Lest I give the impression that Oscar Eberhart is an oaf, let me state for the record that he is a superb police officer who plays by the rules but is not averse to stretching a point if it hastens the cause of justice and keeps the citizens of Palm Beach out of harm’s way. Like his sergeant, Al Rogoff, Oscar hides his street smarts behind a facade of tough talk (in Al’s case the talk would cause a grammarian to swoon), both men coming off as dullards much to the chagrin of many a con artist who foolishly underrated the pair.

Al, a big bear of a lug, is a closet intellectual and a devotee of classical music and dance who is grateful to attend the opera or ballet seated in the family circle or standing room if necessary. Oscar, slim and dapper, would suffer through
Aida
only if he were allowed to do so from the royal box at Covent Garden. These men are as essential to my chosen profession as water is to a fish and I strive to keep in their good graces, cooperating rattier than competing, when, as often happens, we share a common cause.

When we returned to the house from our astonishing find in the goal, Tilly came rushing to her boss who took her hand and, on tiptoe, whispered into her ear. Tilly responded to the news with her signature scream before fainting dead away. Those who had started to pick at the buffet now tried to ditch their plates as the guests began to close in on me, the policemen, Matthew Hayes and the now prostrate Tilly. Lieutenant Eberhart immediately took charge, ordering one of the patrolmen to carry Tilly upstairs, telling Hayes to go with them. He told Al to get on the horn to headquarters after calling for an ambulance.

Finally, he mounted the drum with the two remaining officers flanking it. “We’ve found Mrs. Hayes,” he announced to the now stunned guests.

“Where?” someone shouted.

“Is she dead?” came another cry.

“She’s been hurt,” was all Eberhart would admit to at this juncture. “An ambulance is on the way and more help from police headquarters. I would like you all to remain here, in this room, until further notice, and that includes the waitstaff. If there’s anyone in the kitchen I want the person in charge to bring them all in here.”

People began shouting questions at Eberhart, all of which he answered with a shrug, making it clear that for the moment the briefing was over. Not getting anything out of Eberhart they began consulting each other, raising a din as they queued up at the portable bars for liquid libations. If it was going to be a long night there was no reason to see it through dry and sober. No one complained of being detained. In fact, if asked to leave they would have done so with great reluctance. Police reinforcements and an ambulance were all this crowd needed to transform speculation into fact. They were witnesses to what tomorrow would be the talk of the town and, given Matthew Hayes’s renown, however dubious, perhaps the talk of the nation.

When the sirens could be heard roaring up Ocean Boulevard I spotted Joe Gallo talking on his cell phone, no doubt in communication with his network, with Marge, Mack and Fitz at his side. Eberhart sent one of the patrolmen outside to meet the squad cars and ambulance with orders to direct them up the driveway and round back to the maze. Eberhart went out the French doors, leaving Al and his cohort to prevent the crowd from doing likewise. I noted the lieutenant was still holding the map to the grid which he had confiscated from Hayes.

The crowd got as close to the doors as they could and raised an excited clamor when Eberhart threw the switch, lighting the scene out back like a movie set. As if an imaginary director had called for action, two medics hauling a stretcher flew past followed by a doctor toting a familiar black bag and a dozen men in uniform and civilian dress carrying the paraphernalia of scene-of-the-crime specialists. All followed Eberhart into the maze.

“She’s dead, right?” Gallo was now standing beside me, phone glued to his ear.

“I can’t tell you anything more than you heard from the lieutenant. He’ll make another announcement when they get her out of the maze.”

“She’s dead,” Gallo announced into the phone’s tiny speaker. “They found her in the maze.”

Well, everyone had seen them enter the maze so I hadn’t jumped the gun on Oscar. The sounds coming to us from the front of the house, mostly irate car horns, told me Ocean Boulevard was now backed up for miles in both directions: the rubbernecks most likely coming to a dead halt before the congregating squad cars with their foreboding red, blue and yellow warning lights. Thanks to the public relations spin Hayes had put on his home and wondrous maze, all out there knew whose villa was under siege this evening. Why, not who, was the question.

If a camera crew from the local network was also out there, Joe Gallo could very well be hooked up to them, giving a blow-by-blow from the inside as they broadcast the scene from without. The rookie news gatherer was in the right place at the right time for a leap up the ladder of media muckraking. Fitz was gazing upon her date with pride and awe as Mack Macurdy tried to wrestle the phone from Joe with little success. Marge, looking amused, gave me a wink before running her hand, like a blade, across her neck. I responded with a slight but unmistakable nod, thinking that upon such mundane gestures trusting relationships are founded.

It was an hour before the medics exited the maze with their burden. The body on the stretcher with a blanket drawn over its face was the proverbial picture worth a thousand words.

When Eberhart returned, he mounted the convenient drum and told everyone, including the waitstaff, that they were to give their name and address to the officers now posted in the entrance hall with pads and pens at the ready, and then they were free to go. They were cautioned not to leave town without confiding their destination to the Palm Beach police and advised to be prepared to give statements regarding their movements this evening to the police when called upon.

Coincidentally, at the end of the short spiel the maze lights were extinguished, turning the glass doors into a black wall, bringing down the curtain on the first act of what was now clearly an official investigation into a suspicious death. Eberhart’s announcement, short and to the point, did not invite questions.

I silently agreed with him that it was not necessary to take statements here and now as it was approaching midnight and would take till morning to complete the task. I also felt, not without a tad of pride, that the lieutenant knew he had an objective observer on the scene he could pump for facts that would facilitate interviews if they were deemed necessary.

The crowd lingered, as I thought they would, forming groups, whispering, shaking their heads and, on more than one pair of lips one could read the words, “In the maze? But how?”

I saw Carolyn and Billy make for the exit but they were waylaid by Laddy Taylor. A few words were exchanged between Carolyn and her stepson before she rudely sidestepped him, taking Billy with her. Laddy started after her, thought better of it and stopped abruptly, glaring with pure hatred at the departing couple. I hoped father and I had seen the last of Laddy Taylor but that, alas, was not to be the case.

Seeing that the exodus was moving along in orderly fashion, Eberhart and I went to the kitchen which was approached via a set of swinging doors at the rear of the dining room and down a short flight of spiral stairs that continued to the lower level and servants’ quarters. There were no back stairs. The reason for the trip was to question the caterers assigned to the kitchen since their arrival and not to feed our faces. Our good intentions notwithstanding, we decided it was the best place to talk privately and so sat at the aforementioned table where I fed Oscar the facts as well as a cold supper.

The kitchen crew, two men and one woman, swore that only the actors had entered the kitchen, leaving the house from the kitchen door that led to the driveway and delivery area.

Oscar shot me a puzzled look and I began my precis of the evening by describing the carnival attractions Hayes had treated us to before presenting his wife as Venus, followed by the search for the goal.

“What time did they leave?” Oscar asked the man who was acting as spokesperson for the trio.

“Couldn’t say, exactly,” he answered. “We got here at seven and were told to begin setting out the buffet upstairs when the actors left, not at any specific time.”

“Let’s sit, Lieutenant,” I interrupted, “and I’ll tell you the what and when of this remarkable evening at Le Maze.”

Having sampled most of the hors d’oeuvres, a kind waiter sliced us a few choice pieces of the filet and a baguette to go with it. The bread and meat had cooled but we made no fuss. Noblesse oblige, don’t-you-know.

Oscar pocketed the notebook he had been scribbling on as I spoke and said, “Do you think they’re all done upstairs?”

A glance at Mickey’s hands told me the new day was an hour old. “I should hope so, and it looks like the crew in here is also ready to call it quits.” I stood up. “After you, Lieutenant.”

A man had been posted to stand vigil at the entrance to the maze and another at the front door. The big house was strangely quiet how when a few short hours ago it had resounded with the excited rumble of some fifty partygoers and the fatuous music of an organ grinder.

Except for the last of the caterers who had just finished sweeping the great room, it was empty save for the sparse furnishings and the huge, garish carnival posters lining the walls. The giant images of Marlena Marvel looking down on a deserted fairway were macabre to say the least.

Hayes was waiting for us in the solarium, a room common folks call a screened-in porch, with Al Rogoff in charge. “The maid took something to calm her,” Al told us as we entered. “She’s snoring and I couldn’t rouse her. Sorry, Lieutenant.”

“A barbiturate,” Hayes snapped. Either the guy was incapable of polite conversation or he had been a professional barker for so long he couldn’t distinguish between making a simple statement and hawking snake oil for thinning hair. Seated on an ornate divan he looked the size of a schoolboy done up in tux pants and a frilly shirt. Hair disheveled and eyes weepy, he was the embodiment of the grieving widower or a reasonable facsimile thereof.

Hayes had remarkably good skin that was so cleanshaven one wondered if he was devoid of facial hair, again bringing to mind a boy rather than a man who was at least sixty years old. With that baby-doll complexion and those brilliant blue eyes I would say Matthew Hayes was quite the successful Romeo in his day and perhaps still was.

“Nothing illegal,” Hayes went on. “In our business the drug is a staple of the medicine cabinet like peroxide and Band-Aids.” Explaining the peculiarities of his profession to the police was not a novelty for the master of Le Maze. “What happened to Marlena?” he suddenly blurted.

“If you mean how did she die, we don’t know, Mr. Hayes. There are no marks on her body...”

“How did she get in the maze?” He rudely cut Oscar short.

Taking charge of the interview Oscar lectured, “I’ll ask the questions, Mr. Hayes. Your job is to answer them. Is that clear?”

Hayes gave a shrug, leaned back on his divan causing his feet to rise above the floor, and sulked.

“You put on a show here tonight, is that right?” Oscar began, taking the notebook from his jacket pocket.