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.
9
AS I TURNED INTO Hayes’s driveway I passed Mack Macurdy, in a black Jaguar, pulling out. I assume he was making a pest of himself trying to enlist Hayes and Tilly for a stint on his show. I wondered how long Hayes could resist hamming it up for a live TV presentation, and I imagined Tilly was already spending the loot Mack was dangling before her like a carrot egging on a donkey.
If I had anything to do with this case I would discourage either of them from appearing on television or making statements to anyone but the police. This would also spare the public Hayes’s crocodile tears and Tilly’s histrionics. These are the perks I give, gratis, to the citizenry of Palm Beach, for which I am never thanked.
Tilly opened the door and gave me a reverent curtsey. In all my years of being greeted by housekeepers and butlers. in this town it was the first time one reacted as if I were a prince making house calls. Le Maze was so full of theatrics one didn’t know where the show ended and reality began.
“Mr. Hayes is in the den,” Tilly informed me.
On close observation, and in less chaotic circumstances, I noted that Matilda Thompson was a pretty little thing with a figure and gams the shapeless maid’s dress and sturdy oxford shoes diminished but could not entirely hide. What other duties did she perform for the carnival besides lady-in-waiting to Marlena? Salome dropping her seven veils for gawking teenagers at two bits a pop? Or did she step into the magician’s box and get sawed in half?
I gave her the standard line for calling upon a house in mourning. “How is he holding up?”
She responded with the standard comeback, “As well as can be expected, sir.”
The niceties observed, I got down to business. “Were they a happy couple, Tilly?”
“Oh, yes, sir. Very happy. Mr. Hayes is distraught over his loss. How could such a thing happen when we were all...”
“I was here, Tilly, remember?” I cut her off before she could tell her story which no doubt would include the chaise lounge Mr. Hayes had purchased from the previous owners of Le Maze. “I don’t know how it happened, but it certainly did happen.”
“Yes, sir.”
She led me to the den, tapped on the door, removed a piece of paper from the pocket of her uniform, shoved it into my jacket pocket and, purposely avoiding my astonished gaze, opened the door to announce me. My flabber was gasted but I composed myself for my entrance only to be admonished by the little man himself. Rising from his overstuffed divan, he accused, “You’re late.”
“According to your schedule, I may be, according to mine, I’m not, and the only schedule I adhere to is mine. Comprende, Mr. Hayes?”
He glared up at me, was about to speak but changed his mind and laughed instead. “If you had let me get away with that I would have thrown you out,” he said.
“Before this association is over, Mr. Hayes, you may yet: find it necessary to show me to the door.”
“So,” he cajoled, “we have an association.”
“Only if your schedule doesn’t conflict with mine and if you pay your bill when presented and not gasp at my outrageous fee.”
He gave me that amazin’ glare, shrugged, and waved to a club chair that did not match, in fabric or color, the divan. But then it would be hard to find one that could match what appeared to be a piece designed especially for the waiting room of a high-end bordello.
“Okay, okay,” he barked, “get off your high horse and have a seat. I expect to be cheated and if you came cheap you wouldn’t be worth the breath to blow you away.”
I took my seat. “I won’t cheat you, Mr. Hayes, nor will I grease palms. I don’t work that way and neither do the Palm Beach police.”
He sat on the edge of the divan so that his feet touched the floor. “Spare me the sermon. I know what you and everyone in this town thinks of me. Brassy and trashy and out with the garbage. They came to my carnival but they won’t invite the carny man to break bread in their homes.”
“Then why did you come here, Mr. Hayes?”
“Why not? I have the money for it. I wanted to retire down here but Ringling and Barnum had already staked a claim on the West Coast so I came east and bought this mansion in a town where I would stick out like a sore thumb and rattle a few beads. It’s what I do, Mr. McNally. Rattle sacred beads.”
The note Tilly had slipped me was rattling for attention and I had all to do to keep my hand out of that pocket. Le Maze was taking on all the characteristics of a house in a gothic novel. Thanks to the various search parties I knew the attic did not hold the master’s mad wife, nor did the basement contain comfy hiding places for those who shun the sun. What it did harbor was two carny pros who might just be leading me up the garden path which, in this case, was a maze. Archy, you’re in a stew and surrounded by cannibals.
Having confessed to his reason, inane as it was, for coming here and being dubbed persona non grata for his pains, Hayes sank back onto his divan and dropped his chin to his chest like a naughty boy seeking sympathy. Dye the gray hair black, exhibit him with clever lighting and you would peg him for a preppy. His body was remarkably trim due I’m sure to genetics rather than any conscious effort to keep the belly flat and the skin taut.
Today he wore jeans and a sweatshirt with a Ferris wheel logo manufactured, I guessed, especially for his carnival and available on the fairway. (Fool that I am, I suddenly wanted one.) His black shoes appeared to be the same ones he had worn with his tux and I suspected they were the only shoes he wore in public. In my father’s day they were called “elevator shoes,” with the heel built up both within and without, adding a good two inches to the wearers’ stature. Deception was
Matthew Hayes’s forte, from head to heel.
“What happened to Mrs. Hayes?” I asked, hoping the question would remind him of the reason for my presence.
“Someone poisoned her and she died. Haven’t you heard?”
“Let’s cut the rhetoric, Mr. Hayes, and see if we can’t begin to make some sense of what happened here the other night. For that I’ll need your cooperation, not snide comments. That is if you want to learn what happened to your wife or just bask in the publicity.”
He leaned forward and put his hands on his knees to signal his displeasure. “You’re a saucy bastard, McNally.”
“And you’re a calculating one, Mr. Hayes. Shall we go on with this or do you want to show me the door?”
He shrugged as if in resignation and said, “You think I’m a cold and calculating S.O.B. because I’m not prostrate with grief and bawling over what happened. Well, you’re wrong, Mr. McNally. I’m sick over what happened to Marlena and I’m scared out of my wits. But I’m carny, born and bred, and we don’t wear our hearts on our sleeves, as the saying goes. That’s for the suckers.
“I wasn’t born in a trunk, but in a tent on the night the carny was packing it in, one step ahead of the sheriff. Carny folks are all family so they dug in and paced with my father. When the law showed up, the sheriff and two deputies, they brought them to our tent to witness my coming into the world like they were the three wise men. Now I ask you, would anyone serve papers on a scene like that? Of course not. My father gave them a shot of the bathtub gin they had come to arrest us for selling and we all lived happily ever after.
“So you see, Mr. McNally, I was on the game from the moment I was born.”
Nice story, but how much of it was true? “Why are you scared, Mr. Hayes?”
“Why? Because if they got Marlena, they’ll get me next, that’s why I hired you.”
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