“Jamie and I were watching the late news last night when the story broke,” Ursi said, breaking eggs for what would later prove to be coffee soufflé for our dessert. “It was thrilling, and knowing you were there I ran right down and told Mr. McNally what was happening. He tuned right in and that reporter fellow started broadcasting from inside the house. What was it like, Archy?”
“Not as exciting as Joe Gallo would have you all believe, I’m sure. If you watched the Macurdy show this morning you know as much as we who were there.”
“I never miss Breakfast with Mack and Marge, Archy,” she said with that look women get when they’re smitten—or when they’re beating eggs for a coffee soufflé.
Mack certainly had the mature ladies of Palm Beach eating out of his hand and he wasn’t about to relinquish the position to young Joey Gallo. The battle of the newscasters was off and running and the odds are twelve to seven that tomorrow morn Mack appears in jeans and tee with dear Marge laughing her cute head off.
“Your mother knows about last night, Archy,” Ursi went on. “Impossible to keep it from her what with everyone talking about it and her attending a meeting of the garden club this afternoon. She learned you were there so I’m glad you decided to bed down here tonight and show her that you’re all in one piece.”
In fact, it was just the reason I had come home to roost. I called Georgy to tell her I would not make it to Juno this evening and she informed me that it was just as well as she had to appear at the local high school to give the incipient drivers a lecture on defensive driving. She told me every member of the football team, basketball team, tennis team and swimming team had signed up to attend. You see, last semester, in order to make the meeting more informal and relaxed, Georgy had foregone her uniform in favor of shorts and rugby shirt. Word of mouth had ensured tonight’s SRO audience but how many of those poor teen athletes would come away with a sound knowledge of defensive driving? Oh, Georgy!
I still had enough of my wardrobe left at home to dress properly for the McNally happy hour. I stuck with the jeans I had worn all day and replaced my lavender polo with a white dress shirt, a black, hand-knotted bow tie that drooped in the western fashion, and a linen jacket in lime green. Rather natty for a catch-as-catch-can endeavor.
Mother insisted on seeing the Macurdy show rerun on the grounds that she was the only person in Palm Beach who had not seen it. We gathered in the den where father mixed our stand-up martinis in his silver cocktail shaker, poured them into two crystal stem glasses of impeccable quality, and added a green olive to each before serving. It was all much ado about very little as father’s martinis are as dry as a rain forest in August. Mother, wisely, drinks only sauterne.
The show was mercifully devoid of commercials, making it shorter than the original but not any less engrossing for having seen it before. Like any clever puzzle it could be watched by those seeking a solution countless times in search of clues that had escaped them previously.
Mack reported the facts, Marge filled in the background and the tape of Joe’s live coverage made for a show that proved, yet again, that truth is not only stranger than fiction, it is also far more entertaining. After Mack’s original close, a new one had been added with Mack stating, “We have learned from Lieutenant Oscar Eberhart that Marlena Marvel died of digitalis poisoning, taken orally, and the case is now officially classified a suspicious death. Digitalis is a heart medication. Marlena Marvel did not suffer from any heart ailment, nor did anyone in her household, and no traces of the medication have been found in Le Maze, the Ocean Boulevard mansion currently occupied by Matthew Hayes and his late wife, who was known professionally as Marlena Marvel.
“How did a lethal dose of digitalis find its way into Le Maze and into a drink ingested by Marlena? Digitalis is derived from the dried leaves of the foxglove plant, an herb that, for centuries, has been a staple of witchcraft pharmacology.
“Please stay tuned for the evening news and the latest details of the Marlena Marvel mystery. This is Mack Macurdy hoping you will join my wife, Marge, and me for breakfast tomorrow morning.”
With a press of the remote, father banished Mack Macurdy from our den. “Enough of that,” he said.
“I’m so confused,” mother complained, her cheeks flushed. “Is he saying this is the work of witches?”
Mother’s hypertension was clearly aggravated by the excitement and nonsense being stirred up by Mack Macurdy and was most certainly not what she needed while relaxing with her glass of wine. Father was now annoyed and glaring at me because he had no one else upon whom to vent his ire over television in general and Mack Macurdy in particular.
“He’s muckraking, mother, and there just isn’t any polite way of saying it. It’s now a case of suspicious death and that’s as much as the police, or anyone, knows at this point, but that doesn’t garner viewers so Macurdy is luring his listeners with claptrap.”
“You were there, Archy. What do you think happened?” she persisted.
“I think, like the police, that someone died suspiciously last night and an investigation is underway.”
“They said this man, Matthew Hayes, hired you last night. Is that true?”
“Mother, he hired me when his wife went missing. As we now know, she was found. I think that ends my participation in the case. Besides, I may be out of town and unavailable.”
As intended, that got her mind off murder and witchcraft or, more likely, she allowed me to spare her the details of Palm Beach’s latest scandal. Mother is aware that father and I try to shield her from the seamier side of modern life and indulges us in our efforts. Madelaine McNally, despite her recent failings, is still a vital, intelligent woman and for that I am ever grateful.
Even father raised one bushy eyebrow at my news which I have tried many times to emulate, but simply can’t.
“You’re going on a trip, Archy?” Mother exclaimed, hoping it would be a honeymoon cruise on some love boat out of Fort Lauderdale.
“New York for a long weekend is what I have in mind,” I told my amazed audience. “Edward Brandt, who goes under the professional name of Rick Brandt, performed in a revival of Death of a Salesman at our local theater which was seen by a producer from New York. It seems the man was impressed with Rick’s performance as Willy Loman’s son and offered him a role in an off-Broadway show he was mounting. Rick, or Todd as he then called himself, was a waitperson at the Pelican on busy Saturday nights and he’s sent me two tickets to the opening via priority mail.”
“How exciting,” mother said. “I like a success story.” Then, rather timidly, she asked, “Will you be taking Georgia?”
Since Connie and I came to a parting of the ways and I took up with Georgy girl, mother is a tad skittish over who might be my significant other of the moment. My parents have met Georgy and were very taken with her, especially father who is keen on shapely blondes.
“If she can get away, that is just what I had in mind,” I said.
Father wanted to know if I planned to stay at the Yale Club. He is a member, having graduated from that university as well as its law school. I attended Yale but, alas, got the boot for reasons that are none of your business.
This led to a discussion of the many benefits of staying at the club with mother recalling the happy times she and father had enjoyed there when visiting the Big Apple. “Why, it’s our New York apartment,” mother noted. “Of course you’ll stay there, Archy. Take a suite and charge it to father’s account.”
Father raised one eyebrow.
Ursi’s rib roast, with oven-roasted potatoes and balsamic-glazed pearl onions, was superb. With it came asparagus, which I always think is so elegant, served at room temperature and garnished with a drizzle of olive oil and a smattering of lemon zest. The bread was Ursi’s own sourdough loaf and the starter was a Caesar salad—chopped hearts of romaine lettuce tossed with plenty of freshly grated Parmesan and creamy dressing with a hint of garlic and topped with anchovies, then nestled within individual
lettuce leaves.
The lord of the manor decanted a rare vintage Bordeaux St. Emilion poured into stemware that explodes if subjected to a dishwasher. Also not destined for the dishwasher was mother’s gold leaf Limoges father referred to as our “everyday” china. What comes out on special occasions? Don’t ask.
At my love nest in Juno we dine on ovenproof stoneware which is impervious to dishwashers, however, the Juno cottage does not boast such a convenience. Such are the anomalies of life.
The finish was the coffee soufflé concocted with Starbucks’s best beans and presented with a dish of freshly baked tuiles. Home is where the stomach is and Juno is where the heart is and never the twain shall meet.
Mother retired early, leaving father and me to our port and tobacco, a tradition of a bygone era father observes and I go along with because I’m a good son—and I like a good port. I opted for an English Oval, my first of the day, and father made a show of clipping the end of a very expensive-looking cigar before lighting it. I poured the port.
Father opened the conversation with, “Laddy Taylor called just before I left the office. He wants me to execute an order to exhume his father’s body.”
“On what grounds, sir?”
“That Carolyn Taylor poisoned her husband with the digitalis he was taking for his heart condition.”
“Oh!”
8
I HEARD FATHER’S LEXUS pull out of our driveway just as I came out of the shower. I’ve often wondered if he revs the engine when leaving in the morning to wake me or to warn the drivers on the A1A that a man obsessed with getting to the office before nine is about to merge with those not in training for the Daytona 500.
I gave my attire extra attention as the previous evening father had requested I attend his conclave with Laddy Taylor, which was to take place at three this afternoon. After hearing Laddy’s startling accusation against Carolyn coming on the heels of the PM findings on Marlena Marvel’s death, father thought I should be part of the encounter and I fully agreed.
As I was to sit in on a high-profile meeting in the executive suite I decided to dress up rather than down, ergo I selected a tan gabardine single-breasted suit that I hadn’t worn in years. I took a deep breath and managed to get the zipper zipped, the fly button buttoned and a red, white and blue mesh belt (which wasn’t necessary) through the loops and buckled before exhaling. I felt slightly dizzy but such are the forfeitures of dressing up—not to mention foregoing my daily two-mile swim while making whoopie in Juno.
A yellow silk shirt by Armani, no tie, and a pair of ankle-high boots completed the picture of a man to be reckoned with.
In the kitchen Ursi was clearing away the breakfast dishes and Jamie sat at the table sipping coffee and leafing through his morning paper.
“You missed Mack and Marge,” Ursi couldn’t wait to tell me. “And what a show it was. Witch Hazel and Count Zemo were the guests.”
“Witch Hazel,” I gasped. “Are you sure you weren’t watching a commercial?”
“No, Archy. Witch Hazel is a famous clairvoyant. She reads the tarot, tea leaves and palms on selected cruise lines all over the Caribbean. She studied in Haiti where the zombies come from and Mr. Macurdy was lucky to get her on such short notice.”
I could not believe what I was hearing. Macurdy wasn’t only playing this angle for all it was worth, he was chewing the scenery in the process.
“And what did Ms. Hazel have to say about Marlena Marvel?” I foolishly asked.
“She knew her, Archy,” Ursi said with awe. “Witch Hazel knew Marlena Marvel.”
And why not? They were in the same line of business, competing for the patronage of the suckers whose numbers are legion. “Did their paths cross in Tiffany’s while shopping for crystal balls?”
“No,” Ursi said, setting me up with a place mat, napkin and silverware before pouring out a glass of fresh squeezed orange juice. “They knew each other three thousand years ago in Egypt. It seems they were both concubines to a pharaoh who might have been a woman disguised as a man.”
“Besides preposterous, Ursi, it sounds rather risqué. I hope you don’t believe any of this.”
“Oh, it’s all in fun, Archy, and such a diversion from the dreary guests Mack and Marge have had on lately. But you have to admit these clairvoyants’ predictions come true sometimes and it’s enough to give you the gooseflesh.”
Sometimes the weather forecaster’s predictions come true, but it’s never given me the gooseflesh.
“Witch Hazel thinks Marlena was working on a new recipe,” Ursi carried on, “and went too heavy on the foxglove which we all now know is where the heart medicine comes from. Imagine doctors prescribing a witches’ brew for a bad heart.”
And right there was the crux of why Mack Macurdy should be stopped from foisting this nonsense on the public. He had cleverly equated digitalis with foxglove with witchery in the minds of the gullible and unsuspecting. Not only would the police be getting crank calls, so would doctors and, no doubt, the clergy. I wondered what Marge thought of all this.
“So how did she get in that maze?” Jamie said, not looking up from his paper.
Speaking without being addressed was so unusual for our Jamie that both Ursi and I turned to stare at him. How
Ursi got him to say “I do” is one of the more perplexing unsolved mysteries of our age.
“What’s your take on all this, Jamie?” I asked him.
“The papers say she died of this digitalis poisoning and was moved after she expired, so someone carried her to that maze.”
“I’m with you, Jamie,” I told him.
“Well, gentlemen, tell me how it was done with a houseful of people and no one seeing her moved?” Ursi said in triumph. “And Count Zemo, who’s an astrologer for one of those tabloids, cast Marlena’s horoscope for the day she died and it said she was to expect the unexpected.”
“As she didn’t expect to drop dead I guess you have to hand it to Count Zemo. Now, Ursi, do you think I can have a cup of java and breakfast without Mack and Marge?”
“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 futu
re. 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.
McNally's Bluff Page 8