Father nodded thoughtfully as I spoke and when I was done he waited an excruciating few moments before giving me a verbal pat on the back. “Very good, Archy. I should have thought of it myself. Also, it would be a fine opportunity to introduce the widow Taylor to the advantages of coming to us for legal counsel.”
Dear old dad. Let it never be said that he missed an opportunity to present himself to a rich Palm Beach widow in need. But I don’t complain. I brag. If his intent is financial gain it is well deserved, for our clients profit in direct proportion to our earnings. Prescott McNally is a true Renaissance man posing as a Victorian and his son, Archy, is not just another pretty face—but you know that.
As if summing up a brief, the sire stated, “And, as we speak, Hayes is ignorant of all this? Strange, I would say.”
I agreed with a nod. “And stranger still if you knew the man. To succeed in his chosen profession he had to stay one step ahead of his customers—and the law. That his wife went gallivanting with the likes of Carolyn Taylor without his knowing is a bit too much to swallow.”
“I understand,” father said, “Hayes and his wife had a successful business partnership, but have you learned anything of their relationship when they weren’t in the limelight?”
This was more than the obvious query for a domestic murder case. Father’s lifelong love affair with mother prompts him to question how others have fared in the marital sweepstakes. I have long used my parents’ relationship as a deterrent to tying my own knot, refusing to settle for anything less idyllic than the blissful merger of Prescott and Madelaine McNally.
That this is a cop-out does not escape my attention for they, like all newlyweds, had no way of knowing if their union would survive the long haul. In short, you can’t win if you don’t play the game.
“Tilly, who was Marlena’s personal maid, told me the partnership was a roaring success both on and off the fairway, but our resident snoop, Lolly Spindrift, believes Hayes had an eye for the ladies and a low tolerance for marital fidelity.
“Hayes, whom I thought was rather crass regarding his wife’s fate, told me he was a tough carny man who didn’t wear his heart on his sleeve, but that didn’t make his loss any easier to bear. I should mention here that Hayes brought up the possibility of revenge being the catalyst in his wife’s murder. He admitted to picking many a pocket in his long career, not to mention the pint-sized Romeo’s propensity for cuckoldry. Matthew Hayes sleeps with one eye open.”
“More braggadocio than substance, Archy?” father wondered aloud.
“No doubt, sir, but I believe a good deal of his story with one exception.”
“That being?”
“That he doesn’t know how his wife was moved from the house to the goal of the maze. When it comes to the art of illusion, little Matthew Hayes is the Grand Master of the cult.”
“Then why is he keeping it a secret?” father wanted to know.
“For two reasons I can think of, sir. One, there’s honor among thieves and he doesn’t want to give away trade secrets. Two, he’s the architect of the scam.”
“And a murderer in cahoots with the maid who could be his paramour.” Father, as you can see, is a quick study. “But where does Laddy Taylor fit into the scenario?”
“A discontent with a big mouth who wants to make Carolyn Taylor the heavy, taking the suspicion from Hayes and Tilly. In short, a living red herring and the answer to Hayes’s prayer.”
Father gave this some thought, rocking gently in his captain’s chair and pushing a pencil with a razor-sharp point across his desk. “It makes sense, but logic is not the long suit of this case, so caveat emptor, Archy. And let’s not forget those dark forces,” he concluded with a twinkle in his blue eyes.
“Mack Macurdy,” I stated. “He should be censored. There’s been nothing like it since the flying saucer craze and Al Rogoff tells me the police are getting crank calls from the hopeless and helpless who are always among us. They now fear candy laced with foxglove will be the goody of choice for the trick-or-treaters.”
Father nodded. “A nuisance, to be sure, but being a byproduct of freedom of speech, one we must abide with thanks, as well as caution.”
Bless the man. Like Nathan Hale, his fellow Eli, Prescott McNally’s only regret is that he has but one life to give in defense of our Bill of Rights. He makes me proud and that’s as good as it gets. I stood up to leave as I spoke. “A sudden thought, sir. What would happen if Carolyn Taylor were guilty of poisoning her husband?”
“She would go to jail, of course.”
“And her inheritance?” I questioned.
“Surely you know, Archy. One can’t profit from a crime. The court would confiscate everything left to her by Linton Taylor.”
“And the millions would go to...”
Father looked up at me with the slightest trace of a smile on his lips. “Linton Taylor’s next of kin.”
“Who is his son, Laddy Taylor.”
After a significant pause the sire said, “Keep me posted, Archy.”
“Like the month of March,” Mrs. Trelawney said as I passed her desk on the way to the elevator.
“You speak of the weather, Mrs. Trelawney? I believe it’s October.”
“I speak of our visitor, Linton Taylor Jr. He came in like a lion and went out like a lamb. What did you do to him in there?”
“Your boss explained the facts of life to Laddy, which preclude digging up dear old dad.”
Mrs. Trelawney shook her head of polyester gray hair and removed her pince-nez. “Ghoulish, I call it. Since that woman’s mysterious death this town has become obsessed with the macabre.”
“And for that you can thank your pin-up boy, Mack Macurdy. Are you going to have Count Zemo cast your horoscope, Mrs. Trelawney? But I caution you, dear lady. You will have to give him your birth year, as well as your birth date. And don’t lie, Mrs. Trelawney, because Witch Hazel will rat on you. She was around three thousand years ago and might recall attending your first birthday party.”
Mrs. Trelawney replaced her pince-nez and glanced at her lapel watch. “They say men approaching the midlife crisis stage babble incessantly and lust after young women—blondes mostly—and wear clothes they have obviously outgrown. If you keep sucking in your tummy, you’re liable to turn blue.
“And, I’m preparing a memo giving new guidelines for expense account reports. Documentation will be necessary for all amounts in excess of one dollar, and ‘miscellaneous’ items will be automatically deleted by accounting. Good day, Archy.”
Fearing further retribution for my little jest, I rang for the elevator and thought I heard the executive secretary chuckle behind my back. Spoilsport, I thought, as I sucked in my tummy. In the elevator I opened my belt a notch. It didn’t help.
I found Binky and his mail cart in my office, leaving just enough room for me to slither around them and commandeer my desk. “Well, what do you hear from the other side?” I asked.
“Joe is hearing from a lot of women on this side, Archy. The network is getting calls asking when he’s going to appear again and Macurdy flatly refuses to have him back on the show.”
So there’s trouble in paradise. The dynamic duo of the dark forces are squaring off after only one day of teaming up to scare the bejesus out of Palm Beach and vicinity. If there’s one thing an old peacock can’t tolerate, it’s a young peacock. I bet Marge is laughing her head off, but I doubt if my Georgy girl will be amused by Mr. Gallo’s instant fan club.
Why does my fair lady get so roiled up over the escapades of her ex? I don’t begrudge Connie her relationship with the handsome Alejandro Gomez y Zapata. What I begrudge is the fact that it seems to be working.
“Fitz was with him last night, when he went on live TV with the foxglove plant. What a gal. She could be a movie star. Then they went back to Joe’s place for pizza and beer.” Looking around to make sure there was no one else in the office (between us and the cart a mosquito couldn’t get in), Binky whispered, “
I think she spent the night.”
Poor Binky. The beautiful Fitz so near and yet so far. “I hope you didn’t snoop,” I counseled.
“I glanced out a few times, checking the weather. Joe’s lights didn’t go out till the wee hours and I never heard her car pull out till this morning.”
So Binky was up all night, imagining the worst—or should that be the best? I imagined him pacing his trailer between trips to the window—and Georgy girl oiling her revolver.
“Maybe she walked home,” I suggested, “leaving Joe with uneaten pizza crusts, empty cans of beer and one foxglove plant.”
“We got a lot of mileage out of that plant,” Binky beamed. “The network was bombarded with calls asking where he got it.”
“And where did he get it?”
“A nursery in Boca,” Binky answered. “The guy specializes in exotic plants. After last night’s showing he’s going to offer them for sale with a full-page ad in the Palm Beach Post.”
I certainly hope they don’t replace the more traditional garden flora, like mother’s begonias. I could just see some clever PB matron breaking off a leaf or two and asking her husband if he’d like a tad bit of mint in his julep. This was indeed getting out of hand and dangerous to boot. The sooner a rational explanation for Marlena’s death and post obitum movements was announced, the better for our sundrenched island of swaying palms, purse dogs and conspicuous consumption.
I asked Joe Gallo’s stringer, who was my former gofer, what he and the television reporter had come up with in the Marlena Marvel case besides hyping witches, warlocks and the exotic plant industry in Boca.
“What did you come up with?” he shot back.
My, my, aren’t we being cagey. One day as a TV stringer and he’s giving his betters lip. “I asked you first,” I told him.
“They say you’re working for Matthew Hayes,” Binky more or less accused rather than stated.
“And who are they?”
“My information came with the promise of anonymity for my source.”
This was too much, and no doubt the end result of watching countless television programs that extol cops, robbers, reporters seeking the truth and lawyers seeking justice. “Reveal your source, Binky Watrous, or I’ll tell Joe you’re spying on his love life. Do you know the meaning of voyeur, young man?”
The boy blushed from Adam’s apple to eyebrows. “I was checking the weather,” he blurted.
“At three o’clock in the morning? Come, come, my friend. Who told you I was working for Hayes?”
He began backing his cart out of the office. “I’m running late. Catch you later, Archy.”
“Fine, Binky. Bye-bye. I must remember to tell Mrs. Trelawney you’re moonlighting in a field that may be in conflict with the interests of McNally and Son.”
“Blackmailer,” he shouted.
“Peeping Tom,” I called back.
He and his wretched cart came to a halt. “Why do you always win?” he cried.
“Because God is on my side. That’s why.”
“Then ask God how I know you’re working for Hayes.”
“That, Binky, is blasphemous.”
He slumped over his cart handle. I had worn him to a frazzle and could get him to tell me the exact hour the lights went out in Gallo’s trailer. I don’t gloat. I love Binky Watrous—especially when he acquiesces to my demands. “Let’s have it,” I said.
Raising his head he fixed those woeful brown eyes upon me and blew the cover on his informer. “Hayes told Mack and Mack told Joe and Joe told me. Satisfied?”
I was more than satisfied. I was curious. Mack had been to Le Maze before me this morning. In fact, I saw him leave as I pulled into the driveway. If Mack knew I was formally employed by Hayes it meant that Hayes and Mack were in contact after I left. What were they up to?
More curious was Hayes’s refusal to take my advice not to appear on Mack’s show. Was it because he didn’t want to make Mack hostile to his cause, or because he feared what Mack might do if spurned? Whatever the reason, I didn’t like it. I didn’t like it one iota.
And Mack had made the goal. I mustn’t forget that.
“Thank you, Binky, you’re a good man.”
“If we’re sharing, Archy, would you tell me what Hayes told you that might help solve the murder. I guarantee your anonymity.”
This boy had the cojones of a brass monkey but didn’t know it. Ignorance is not only bliss, it’s useful. “He told me nothing that helps, Binky, and that’s the truth.”
“Have you thought of a tunnel?” he muttered, as if he were sharing more than he should.
That pricked up my ears, as they say. “You mean a tunnel going from...”
“The house to the goal of the maze,” he completed my thought like a child eager to show his cleverness. “This town is full of tunnels, mostly under the A1A leading to the beach,” he went on like a locomotive out of control. “Maybe when they were building the maze, Hayes also had them construct a tunnel.”
Not bad, I thought. Not bad at all. “But the tunnel would connect to the lower level. So how did they get her from the second floor to the lower level without being seen?”
“We’re not ruling out magic,” he stated.
“Ta, ta, Binky.”
“Ta, ta, Archy.”
12
THE FOUR SEASONS IS almost as far south on Ocean Boulevard as you can go before leaving Palm Beach and heading for Manalapan. The car jockey relieved me of the Miata and I entered the long, elegant lobby, two stories of glossy marble. I traverse it thinking I’m on my way to an audience with the last czar in his winter palace.
The bar is called the Living Room, mainly because it’s furnished with comfy chairs and little tables, soft rugs and a grand piano that’s not just for show. As I entered, the pianist, in black tie, was tinkling out a Cole Porter melody that, like all Porter tunes, was conducive to ordering an old-fashioned while gazing into the eyes of a beautiful woman.
Excuse me if I wax poetic but the Living Room and Cole Porter have that effect on this romantic. Need I add that I was in one of my favorite watering holes?
At the far end of the room, opposite the bar and just beyond the piano, a few steps lead up to a smaller and therefore more intimate area where a fireplace, lit of course, is the focal point. My beautiful lady was seated in a corner awaiting her date.
“You’re the tops, you’re a Berlin ballad,” I sang as I took the chair opposite Marge Macurdy.
She laughed, showing off a set of pearly teeth in a beguiling freckled face. She wore a hat, which was yellow, peaked, and resembled a baseball cap, of all things. It sat jauntily on her curly head. Her yellow dress featured a shawl collar and vee neckline that, for Palm Beach, was very modest. (See-through dresses are suddenly the rage. Ugh!)
“I bet you know all the lyrics,” she teased.
Given that lead-in I proceeded to prove that I did.
“Hush,” she warned. “People are looking. It’ll be rumored tomorrow that I was serenaded in a faulty tenor by a man who was not my husband.”
I forgot that Marge was probably recognized the moment she walked into the Four Seasons. One of the drawbacks of escorting a celebrity, major or minor, is that you are scrutinized from head to toe by the hoi polloi, all hoping that you will do something either naughty or nutty. I think I was veering toward the latter.
“I take umbrage at the word faulty.”
“Really? I thought I was being kind,” Marge explained.
Sassy? Yes, this was my kind of woman, but why speculate on what might be when she’s got a hubby and I have a very enchanting significant other?
“You haven’t ordered?” I noted, glancing at our empty table.
“I haven’t been asked, but here she is now,” Marge said.
A pretty young thing was hovering over us, pen and order form in hand. “What’s your pleasure, please?” she asked in an unmistakable British accent.
“You’re a long way from London,” I
said.
“I’m even a longer way from Sydney,” she informed me.
Marge grinned and I groused, “So I was mistaken. It happens, but not often.”
“You’re a breath of fresh air, Archy, and right now I could use all the fresh air I can get,” Marge kindly soothed my slightly damaged ego.
“That bad?” I asked.
She nodded stoically. “But a martini would help ease the pain.”
“Two Ketel One martinis, straight up with a twist, and some nibbles, please.”
As Sydney departed a woman and young man came up the steps and took the table directly across from Marge and me. She was elderly, flawlessly coiffed and affected a rather disagreeably haughty air. The young man was in jeans and a polo shirt. He looked petulant.
Sotto voce I mumbled, “The original odd couple.”
Marge put a finger to her lips and whispered the woman’s name. I was impressed. The lady, whom I certainly knew by name but had never met, was often dubbed the queen of Palm Beach society. That she was taking her libation in a public pub, however chic, was almost unthinkable.
“It’s said,” Marge informed me in hushed tones, “that she has the most powerful Rolodex in Palm Beach.”
I rather liked that unique description of the lady’s power in our town. What Marge meant was that with a few phone calls, Queenie could make you, break you, or rustle up a hundred people to subscribe to your charity and pay through the nose for the honor. “And the boy?” I asked.
“Her son and the proverbial enfant terrible. He’s been tossed out of all the best schools, all the best clubs and all the low-life bars. She adores him.”
What a town. A queen and her errant prince bending their elbows with the proletariat. If the boy was not welcome at Colette, mummy would shun it to make a statement. Blood, you see, is thicker than the waters of cafe society. And if he was as bad as Marge claimed I wondered how long it would be before Her Highness called upon Archy McNally to bail him out of a mess the mater’s money couldn’t quell.
Our drinks arrived in crystal glasses, the icy white liquor looking like the nectar of the gods. The nibble tray was respectable, if not overly imaginative. Nuts, mini pretzels, cheese bits and black olives. Recalling the feast Oscar Eberhart and I had consumed at Le Maze did not make the nibbles any more appetizing.
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