McNally's Bluff

by Vincent Lardo

  “Who are they?”

  “I don’t know, Archy, I swear I don’t know. I pulled a lot of scams in this big country and made a lot of enemies. Now one of them is coming after me. Between us, Archy, I made a lot of husbands angry and more than one took a buckshot to my rear. I figure one of them got Marlena to make his point.”

  I noted how he suddenly dropped my given name as he made his appeal. I was also aware of the effectiveness of this maneuver. Could I believe him? Dare I believe him?

  “What do you know about digitalis, Mr. Hayes?”

  “I’ve heard of it. Who hasn’t? But it was never prescribed by a doc for me, or Marlena. How it got into her tea, I’ll never know.”

  “Tea?” I questioned. “When did she take tea?”

  “Right after her gig, like always. I mean after she did her turn as Venus. Tilly always brewed her a pot of tea after a performance and Marlena took it while she soaked in the tub. She had to bathe, you know, to get off the greasepaint.” This got better all the time. If Marlena took the lethal dose of digitalis while soaking in the tub, someone had to not only haul her out of the tub, but dry and dress her before carrying her to the maze—with a houseful of people running amok all over the place. I’ll believe it when a snowstorm snarls traffic on the Dixie Highway. (Bite your tongue, Archy.)

  Remembering the note, I asked, “Can you trust Tilly?”

  “With my wallet,” Hayes answered, revealing his priorities. “She’s a good kid. Not too bright but she’s been with us for over two years. She was an aspiring actress we found slinging hash in a diner trying to make enough in tips to get her bus fare to New York. Marlena told her we were headed east and Tilly joined the tour. Between us, she was a star attraction in the stag tent. She did Cleopatra with a garden snake that passed for an asp. Not bad, and she got half the box office every performance.”

  There was a hell of a lot transpiring “between us” on this initial interview and I added one more. “Between us, Mr. Hayes, are you and Tilly strictly boss and employee, no hanky-panky and exploding buckshots?”

  He raised his hand, high. “On my word of honor, Archy.”

  I almost laughed in his face.

  “Have the police leveled with you?” he wanted to know.

  “I haven’t talked to them since the night Marlena died.” It wasn’t really a lie as I don’t consider my personal talks with Al Rogoff official banter with the PB men in blue. “I take it they haven’t said anything to you that might help our cause.”

  “Not a thing. They searched the house and the maze all day yesterday, questioned Tilly and me, but never said what they found or what they were thinking.”

  Because they didn’t find anything and were thinking that they were being bamboozled but couldn’t figure out how. I know, because I was feeling the same way. “These people who you claim may be out to get you, do you think they’re carny folks?”

  “They could be,” he answered. “There were plenty I duped and cheated and fired over the years. I don’t play favorites, Archy. Now I’m settled down with big bucks and a plan to make more in Palm Beach, and maybe someone doesn’t like it. Could be carny folks.”

  “There were carny people here the night of the party. They supposedly left before we started our hunt for the goal. Did they all leave?”

  “If they didn’t, where are they hiding? Behind the wallpaper?”

  Good point.

  It was time to make the final pitch and I did so without preamble. “How was it done, Mr. Hayes? You know all the tricks of your trade. Share this one with me, and the police, to avenge your wife and perhaps save your life in the process.”

  “You’re wrong,” he bellowed, waving his arms and fidgeting in his seat. “I don’t know all the tricks. That’s a sucker’s conceit. Anyone who says he knows it all drops his guard and when you drop your guard you’re dead. Don’t ever forget that, Archy. If there’s a sucker born every minute, there’s a new scam being concocted every thirty seconds to keep up with the demand.

  “Did you ever see a performing magician hold a piece of string, about a foot long, in his hands and ask someone in the audience to come forward and, handing him a scissors, have the person cut the string in half? The magician now holds two pieces of string, one dangling from each hand. He clasps them between the palms of his hands, pretending to pray, opens his hands and, presto, he is holding one piece of string, about a foot long.

  “A theater full of people, far more than were gathered in this house the night Marlena died, and all of them have been hoodwinked by the oldest trick in the magic trade. All of them will swear the string was cut in two and magically rejoined in the illusionist’s mitts. Do you know how it’s done, Archy?”

  “No, sir. I don’t.”

  “But you know it’s a trick.”

  I nodded. “Conceded. I know it’s a trick.”

  “Well, I don’t know how Marlena was poisoned in her bath and carried to the goal of the maze. But, like you, I know it was a trick.”

  Very clever. He just confirmed what the police and I already knew but did so in the form of a parable. While other little boys were reading the adventures of Huck and Tom, little Matthew was reading Elmer Gantry. But, I bear witness, Matthew Hayes was beguiling. If I sat here any longer he would make a convert of this skeptic.

  “So we can rule out magic,” I offered.

  He laughed. “You’ve been listening to that Macurdy fellow. A lot of hogwash but don’t write him off. He’s latched on to a good thing and is making the most of it. I would do the same.”

  “Did Marlena believe in the supernatural?”

  He seemed to mull this over before answering, “Yes and no. Look, I taught Marlena everything she knew about the carny business. You know how we teamed up. Everyone does. It’s no secret. I showed her the ropes. Fortune-telling, healing, lucky charms, contacting beloved ones on the other side. Marlena was good at it. A natural, you might say. And like all naturals, I think she was beginning to believe her own hype. No surprise. Film stars, athletes, politicians—sooner or later they all believe the lies planted by their press agents.

  “Let’s say Marlena thought she had the gift.”

  “Could she have been fooling around with digitalis? Experimenting with it as a potential restorative? A kind of medically endorsed snake oil.”

  I got the shrug. “Could be, but so what? If she was using herself as a guinea pig who carried her out of the house and to the maze? Her medium?”

  It always boiled down to the same thing. How did Marlena Marvel get from the house to the maze? The razzle-dazzle. The illusion. “Find her murderer,” I thought aloud, “and we’ll know how it was done.”

  “That’s your job, Archy.” He rose to signal the end of the meeting.

  “One question before I go. Who, besides you, had a map of the maze, showing the way to the goal, or had access to it?”

  “I had the only one, which the police have confiscated. Only the architect of the maze knew the secret and he gave me the map. I doubt if even the men who did the planting could figure it out. Of course Marlena had access to my copy.”

  But that’s not how she got to the goal of the maze.

  “A final piece of advice.” I spoke as we left the den and made for the front door. Tilly was nowhere in sight. “I would not appear on the Macurdy show if I were you. Nor should your maid, if she’s asked.”

  “Why not?” he snapped.

  “It would not help your reputation as a publicity hound and it would cast doubts as to the depth of your sorrow. Not to mention that everything you say can, and will, be held against you. Keep a stiff upper lip, Mr. Hayes, but keep it shut.”

  “There’s a limit to what I’ll take from you, Archy, and if I want your advice, I’ll ask for it.”

  “Meaning you’ll go on the show?”

  “Meaning I haven’t made up my mind.” We arrived at the front door and he put his hand on the big brass knob. “What’s your next move, Mr. Detective?”
/>   “I haven’t the foggiest idea, Mr. Hayes.”

  “Try to learn what the police are thinking. That guy; Eberhart, is your pal, right?”

  “He’s an acquaintance, Mr. Hayes. I’ll stay in touch.”

  “You want a retainer?”

  “Check your mail. It comes with a self-addressed return envelope.”

  He opened the door and bowed me out.

  I walked very slowly to the Miata, the note in my pocket feeling like a piece of the family silver I had pinched from my unsuspecting host. When on official business I always drive with the top up as a young man racing around Palm Beach in a convertible suggests frivolity. It also serves as a cover when I want to read a clandestine note passed to me by the help and not be viewed doing so from an upstairs window.

  I got in the car and even fastened the seat belt before extracting the treasure from my pocket.

  “When you read this, I’ll be browsing in the bookstore on South County Road.”

  Matthew Hayes had best keep a watchful eye on his wallet.

  10

  THE CLASSIC BOOKSHOP IS a Palm Beach favorite with locals as well as our winter visitors and this afternoon it was bustling with patrons in search of a good read. The Classic bills itself as a Full Service Bookstore and is true to its word. Autographed first editions, book signings and interviews with authors are just some of the reasons the shop is such a popular community gathering place.

  Its logo appears in bold black letters over the canopy that shades the large display window, and two palm trees flank the storefront. Entering, I nodded to several acquaintances before spotting a woman, all in black, whom I suspected was my date. She was browsing in the mystery section which I thought was rather germane to the events that brought us here. And, how clever of her to have picked the Classic for our rendezvous. Owing to the shop’s popularity it was a venue that would cause the least amount of speculation should we be observed, as opposed to a corner table in a tacky saloon.

  Not wearing a hat I couldn’t tip it, but I did perform a slight bow. “Fancy meeting you here.”

  “Thank you for coming, Mr. McNally.” She was indeed all in black, from shoes to slacks to blouse with décolletage that showed a hint of black bra. The dark glasses completed a picture of someone striving for anonymity and failing miserably In Palm Beach on a sunny fall afternoon, she stood out like a giraffe frolicking with penguins.

  “Thank you for asking,” I said. “I take it you have something you’d like to impart that you did not want Mr. Hayes to hear. Yes?”

  Examining the paperback titles, she replied, “Someone visited with Madame the night of the gala. The night Madame died.”

  This was certainly a revelation. “And who was the caller?”

  “Mrs. Taylor,” she muttered through pursed lips.

  “Carolyn Taylor?” I questioned, unable to mask my astonishment.

  “Yes, her.” Tilly continued to look at the spines of the shelved paperbacks and not at me. It was most distracting: We were also blocking the aisle to the annoyance of the browsers.

  I touched Tilly’s elbow and gently moved her toward the rear of the shop. “Carolyn Taylor called on Marlena the night of the party? By invitation? They knew each other?”

  “I don’t know if she was invited upstairs, but they knew each other. Since we came here Madame has met with Mrs. Taylor many times. I drove Madame to luncheonettes and coffee shops in West Palm and Lake Worth where Mrs. Taylor would be waiting. They talked over coffee and sandwiches. I was never invited in so I don’t know what they talked about.”

  My astonishment turned to disbelief. “Did Mr. Hayes know Mrs. Taylor was friendly with his wife? Did he know they were meeting clandestinely?”

  Tilly shook her head. “I don’t believe he knew.”

  Not being able to see her eyes went a long way in reinforcing my distrust in her story. “But if Mrs. Taylor came to the house, he must have seen her.”

  “She came to the house the night of the party, just like everyone who was invited. Remember when the lights went out before the presentation, then the spotlight came on and moved up the stairs to the balcony where Marlena was standing? We rehearsed that several times the night before the gala. I was on the balcony, in a corner where I was hidden from view, but close to the stairs.

  “Just when the spotlight illuminated Madame I saw Mrs. Taylor on the second-floor landing. She ran into the upstairs hall. When the presentation was over and the light faded, I quickly led Madame off the balcony and to her bedroom. Mrs. Taylor was not there.”

  “You mean Mrs. Taylor went back downstairs, to the party?”

  “I don’t know where she went. I only know that she was not in Madame’s bedroom when we got there.”

  “Did you tell Madame what you had seen?”

  “No,” she answered. “Madame and Mrs. Taylor were so secretive about their relationship I thought it best not to mention the incident. Perhaps Mrs. Taylor had arranged to bring something for Madame that was not my business to know.”

  My, my, wasn’t Tilly the most circumspect of ladies-in-waiting.

  Carolyn was with us, downstairs, when the lights came back on and people began queuing up to draw names out of the hats. But was she there from the time the lights came back on or did she arrive moments later? I honestly didn’t know. Hayes was talking, people were milling about, I couldn’t swear who was or wasn’t present at that exact moment.

  Tilly’s news was so startling I was having a difficult time taking it all in. Also, we had to keep walking, pretending interest in the books on display without hampering the efforts of more serious shoppers. Perhaps the Classic wasn’t the ideal place for this meeting but now that we were here I had no choice but to make do. Carolyn Taylor and Marlena Marvel were friends who met regularly at off-beat coffee shops in the surrounding area, but never in Palm Beach proper? It was possible, as all things that are not impossible are possible. But was it likely? Of course not.

  Carolyn could have mounted the stairs when the lights went out. Sticking close to the wall she would have gone undetected by the meandering spotlight. Marlena was highlighted for a minute, perhaps two. During that time Carolyn could have come back down or, when the spot faded and before the lights came back on, she could have done it. In fact, there was so much confusion at the time, she could have made it down unseen even if the lights came on before she reached the last step. Possible, yes. Likely, no.

  Most curious of all, why was Tilly telling me this? So I asked her, “Why haven’t you told this to the police or Mr. Hayes?”

  “I don’t want to get involved with the police,” she stated vehemently.

  Probably because you might have to give them your real name. Could I believe anything this woman said?

  “And Mr. Hayes? Surely you’re not concerned about getting involved with him, as you already are.”

  “I am loyal to Madame, Mr. McNally. If she didn’t want Mr. Hayes to know about her relationship with Mrs. Taylor, it is not my place to tell him. Also, I do not want Mrs. Taylor to get in trouble for something that may be easily explained.”

  Her altruism did not warm my heart. “So why are you telling me?”

  She heaved a sigh and began to sniffle. Unable to see behind the dark glasses I could not tell if this sudden display of emotion was real or feigned. “I am so confused, Mr. McNally,” she sobbed, “and I don’t know what to do so I turn to you for guidance. Mr. Hayes says you are most respected in Palm Beach for your—what is the word? Discretion?”

  Between her outfit and now obvious distress, we were being anything but discreet in the Classic Bookshop. I again took her by the elbow, but this time I guided her out of the shop. In the bright light of day she looked even more bizarre. “Have you told anyone else the story of Mrs. Taylor being on the second floor the night of the party?” I questioned.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Who?”

  “I will not tell you,” she brazenly informed me. Or should that be she did
not inform me?

  “Out of loyalty, I presume.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  People strolled by in shorts and sandals giving us the eye. Check out the tall dude in a tan gabardine suit that looks a bit snug about the waist and the little woman in widow’s weeds.

  “You know, Tilly, I will have to report this to the police and to my client, who is your boss. Both of whom you do not want to tell yourself.”

  “I did what I had to do, Mr. McNally, and you must do what you have to do.”

  “Translation. I force your hand, the story gets out, and your loyalty is never breached.”

  She shrugged. “I did my duty.”

  “After a fashion, I would say.”

  “Goodbye, Mr. McNally.”

  She turned to leave but I stopped her with a gentle tap on the shoulder. “One more thing, Tilly. Mr. Hayes told me you made tea for Marlena after the presentation. Is that right?”

  “It is,” she said. “I always serve her hot tea which she takes in her bath following the show.”

  “Where did you brew it? Downstairs, in the kitchen?”

  “No. We keep an electric perk in the bedroom. I boiled the water in it and poured from it to make the tea.”

  “And was the perk filled and ready to be turned on when Marlena was performing?”

  “It was.”

  “So anyone who happened to be on the second floor that night could have tampered with the tea water. Isn’t that what you’re trying to tell me?”

  Tilly shook her head violently, sobbed and fled.

  I got back to the McNally building only a few minutes before Mrs. Trelawney announced the arrival of Laddy Taylor. This precluded me from briefing the sire on my meetings with Matthew Hayes and Tilly. So eager was

  Laddy to accuse his stepmother of a heinous crime he was some ten minutes early for his three o’clock appointment.

  Father and I stood as Laddy rudely brushed past Mrs. Trelawney and entered the inner sanctum, brandishing a newspaper. “Digitalis poisoning,” he said by way of greeting, “isn’t that enough reason to request and be granted an order to exhume my father’s body?”