McNally's Bluff

by Vincent Lardo

  “To Eve,” I toasted.

  She raised her glass but didn’t respond before sipping her drink. When she did speak it was to state, without preamble, the reason she wanted to see me. After all, we had observed the niceties of polite chitchat: small talk and gossip. The arrival of our drinks was a prelude to the more serious business on her agenda. There is nothing like a martini to get the tongue wagging.

  Marge opened with, “What’s going on, Archy?”

  “Strange. That’s just what I was going to ask you,” I said, “but you seem to know as much, or as little, as I do.”

  “I know you’re working for Hayes.”

  “A fact you learned from your husband.” I then asked what I already know because I wanted to see just where Marge stood in whatever was going on between her husband and Hayes. Was it a duo, or a triangle? “And who told him?”

  She didn’t hesitate a moment before telling me. “Hayes, of course. He and Mack were on the phone shortly after you left Le Maze this morning.”

  “Now it’s my turn, Marge. What the hell is going on? Mack and Hayes are suddenly very tight. Why?”

  She sipped from her glass before answering, and so did I. I even reached for a wedge of cheese and an olive. I moved the nibble dish to her and she dismissed it with a wave of her hand.

  “All I know, Archy, is that Mack is trying to get Hayes to come on the show. He’s made several visits to Le Maze for that reason. I told Mack he was chasing rainbows, but now I think Hayes is actually considering doing it.”

  I may be a sucker for a lovely and clever woman, but I now felt that Marge didn’t have a clue as to what her husband was plotting or how he got Hayes to cooperate. “I got the same impression from Hayes,” I said. “I advised him not to do the show and he told me to mind my own business.”

  “That sounds just like the man. May I ask you why you took him on as a client in what has got to be the most bizarre as well as the most sensational murder mystery in Palm Beach history?”

  “Bizarre, thanks to Hayes and his Amazin’ Maze, and sensational because of the spin given it by Breakfast with Mack and Marge.”

  “Don’t lay that on me, Archy McNally,” she protested. “I agreed to having Joe as our sole guest the morning after the night before. His on-the-spot reporting of the crime with us present made it not only plausible but exciting. It was the right thing to do. It was Mack’s idea to push the dark forces angle and, naturally, Joe went along with it because he was on a roll and loving every minute of it. You know Joe’s been promoted to full-fledged reporter and is right now the network’s great white hope.”

  “I hear he’s also the darling of silly ladies who should know better, and Mack is refusing to have him back on the show.”

  She laughed. “Mack is acting like a diva who wants to shoot the ingénue. My husband, Archy, has an ego the size of an elephant’s behind, in case you haven’t noticed. He played varsity football at college and had all the girls hot on his trail, including this one. After graduation we went to New York to seek fame and fortune. We both modeled with moderate success until Mack got a small part on a soap. He was written out of the script after two seasons.

  “Hal Ingrams, our producer, was pitching the breakfast show to the network down here and, seeing Mack on the soap, asked him to do a pilot. I was brought in to pour the coffee and no one was more surprised than Mack and me when the network bought not only the concept, but us to boot. It’s called a package deal.”

  It’s always interesting to know how people get from being one of the bunch to top banana and, more than just co-incidentally, luck rather than talent is the impetus. I speculated on the fact that they had known each other since their undergraduate days. No doubt the affair was consummated before they legalized it—if they ever legalized it. In show biz one never knows, and I didn’t dare ask.

  “I imagine,” I offered, “for Mack Macurdy, this is just a stepping stone to the big time. Hence, the dark forces, Witch Hazel, Count Zemo and every and any crowd pleaser he can get into the mix.” What I didn’t say was that Marlena Marvel’s murder was Mack Macurdy’s luck factor in his quest for stardom, making him the only one to date with a motive for the crime. But that was too bizarre even for this bizarre case.

  At this point I couldn’t help noting that the queen was drinking a Manhattan while the bad boy was belting down a bottled beer without benefit of a glass. Gauche!

  “Mack and Joe ran Hayes and Marlena through Nexis and came up with enough material to start the ball rolling,” Marge continued. “Mack found that foolish witch and the phony count in an advert in some spiritual publication. After their appearance the kooks started coming to us. It’s a nightmare, Archy, and unethical.”

  “But your ratings have soared,” I reminded her.

  “Now you sound like Mack. Yes, the ratings are off the charts, but the end doesn’t justify the means this time.”

  “You’re getting national attention, which should please you,” I said.

  “It pleases Mack more. Do you think we can have another martini?”

  “I’m sure we can.” I gave Sydney the high sign and pointed to our almost depleted glasses. “So you have no idea how or why Mack and Hayes became bosom buddies?”

  She gave this a moment’s thought and then exclaimed, “Can I hire you, Archy?”

  Well, I certainly gave that more than a moment’s thought. “If you need help, I’m at your service. Gratis.”

  The drinks arrived and our waitress removed the old before presenting us with the new. The interval gave us both time to contemplate her strange request and my gallant answer. Let’s see: on this day I had taken on a client to prove his guilt, and had just offered my premium services, gratis, to a married woman I found too attractive for my own good. Should I consult Count Zemo to see what else was in store for this Pisces before the dastardly day ended? Georgy girl, I kept remembering, awaited me in Juno with a foxglove salad and a freshly oiled weapon.

  Marge and I imbibed before picking up where we had left off. Feeling my way, I said, “You’re concerned about more than Mack’s iniquitous media blitz. No?”

  She gave a shrug and seemed to relax, as if having come to a decision to share her burden had somehow lightened the load. Or was it the second Ketel One?

  “Mack is up to something and I want to know what it is,” she explained.

  So do I, I told myself. “Does it have anything to do with Marlena Marvel’s murder?”

  “It has everything to do with the murder, Archy, that’s what has me worried, and scared. I can deal with Mack’s ego and unscrupulous ambition. I’ve been doing it for fifteen years. He’s always bragged and speculated about making it big on the small screen and is in almost daily touch with our agent in New York to that end. When we got the show down here he hired a public relations firm with offices in New York and Los Angeles to get us press where it matters. They’re expensive and so far got us mentioned in several New York and L.A. gossip columns which any press agent could do for half the cost.”

  Fifteen years? If they left college when they were twenty-one or twenty-two, Marge would be just about my age, plus or minus. Okay, minus. I don’t want you to think I’m trying to guess her age when I should have been listening to her tale of woe, because I was doing both. In my line of work you learn to be ambidextrous when absorbing information.

  “What’s different now?” I questioned.

  Marge took a deep breath and expelled, “He’s suddenly full of himself. He’s acting as if his dreams of fame and fortune are no longer dreams, but fact. It’s not just the instant success and national attention we’ve had because of poor Marlena. It’s more than that, Archy, far more.”

  “Give me a for-instance, Marge.”

  Her answer, terse and to the point, was testimony to the amount of time her husband’s newly found confidence in attaining his goal had occupied her thoughts. She simply spoke aloud what she had been saying to herself the last two days.

  “At first
, Archy, I was amused with the occult aspect of Mack’s reportage. Corny, I admitted to myself and told him, but good for a few laughs and if it helped our ratings that was even better. I was against putting on the silly witch and the astrologer and thought we would return to our own format after their appearance. When Mack started booking the kooks who began calling, I protested but was ignored when Hal, our producer, sided with Mack.”

  Marge paused long enough to quench her thirst and helped herself to a pretzel at the same time. I took it as a sign that her appetite had returned now that she was confiding in me. I should have been a psychiatrist, but that’s another story.

  “My first indication that something was askew was when Joe Gallo’s audience response proved more than just positive. They say for every person that voices their approval, or disapproval, to the network, there are a few hundred who feel the same way but don’t bother calling. Joe got about a dozen calls, all in his favor.

  “Mack was furious. I mean furious, Archy. He not only refused to have Joe back on, against Hal’s wishes, but said that if they insisted on putting Joe on, he would walk off the show. That’s unheard of. Mack has been upstaged before, but he’s never threatened to quit a show because of it. He couldn’t afford to. Jobs are scarce in this business. If the network gave us the sack, what would we do? But Mack didn’t seem to care. It was as if he had that old ace in the hole, what actors dream about when making demands. What I’m saying, Archy, is that he’s acting like a star, which he isn’t, and being a perfect bitch toward Joe. Gallo, a green kid who’s unaware of his attractive screen presence.”

  But not for long, I was thinking. Joe is already making it with Palm Beach’s most sought-after young lady, which has to tell him he’s got more going for him than all the rich lotharios in a town lousy with rich lotharios.

  I interrupted with, “I can see how Mack’s vanity has him refusing to be on-screen with Joe, and I understand your concern over losing your job, even if your husband doesn’t give a rap for reasons we don’t know. But that doesn’t say Mack has found the keys to show business heaven. Could be he’s just feeling his oats after being a witness to a sensational murder and impressing his audience with the ghostly details. Maybe Mack is just playing a game with his producer and the network.”

  Marge started shaking her head even before I finished speaking. “I’ve saved the best for last, Archy.”

  “Let’s have it,” I said, raising my glass.

  She took a deep breath. “For years Mack has wanted to produce a pilot for a TV detective series. A very sophisticated and urbane detective, to be sure, like Dashiell Hammett’s Thin Man. What one needs, of course, is backing. A money man who’s willing to gamble on the success of the project. This morning, before I called you, our New York agent called. Mack was at Le Maze and I took the call. Andy, our agent, asked to speak to Mack. I told him Mack was out and could I take a message. No, he would call later, but before ringing off Andy said, ‘Marge, I want you to know how happy I am that Mack has found an angel for the pilot. It’s going to be a smash. Break a leg, honey.’”

  “What did you say?” I quickly asked.

  “I said thanks, Andy. What else could I say? I don’t know what Mack is up to and I didn’t want to queer whatever it is. But why is he keeping it a secret from me? Something is rotten in Denmark, Archy.”

  “And in Palm Beach, unless I’m mistaken. All this has transpired since the night of Hayes’s ill-fated party? There was never any mention of a backer for the pilot before this?”

  “That’s right.”

  We were silent for a long time, both thinking the same thing, neither of us willing to go public with the astonishing idea. “Matthew Hayes,” I finally intoned.

  “Who else?” Marge responded.

  Who else, indeed? “Hayes told me he admired Mack. I quote, He’s latched on to a good thing and is making the most of it. I would do the same, unquote.”

  “So he’s going to risk a few million to watch Mack solve crimes in black tie and opera pumps? I don’t believe it, Archy.”

  “Neither do I, my dear.”

  “Isn’t it strange,” Marge said, “how we all went to that little man’s vulgar party, intent on laughing behind his back, and now it seems the laugh is on us. The moment Marlena Marvel was found in the goal of that overgrown hedgerow all our lives changed, only we didn’t know it at the time. Joe Gallo’s rise. Mack’s great expectations. My trepidation and you hot on the trail. Why are you working for Hayes, Archy?” she asked again.

  “Because I want to solve the mystery of the maze, and I think the wee man has the answer. That simple.”

  “You think he murdered his wife?”

  “I think he knows how it was done. More than that I won’t say at this time. Can you tell me how Mack found the goal that fateful night?”

  She shook her head. “If I knew, I would tell you. Lord knows I’ve told you everything else.”

  “You say this all began when Marlena Marvel turned up dead in the maze. I’ll backtrack and say it began when Mack found the goal. Do you understand?”

  “Mack knows something,” she stated.

  “Only he didn’t know what he knew until after the murder. What helicopter service did Mack use to photograph the maze?”

  “There are two the network employs. Palm Beach Helicopter in Lantana and Ocean Helicopter in West Palm. It would be one of them, I’m sure.”

  “Is Mack putting the squeeze on Hayes? If so, why?” I asked Mack’s wife.

  She reached across the table and put her hand, ever so gently, on mine. Her nails were painted a lustrous pink. Funny what one notices at such moments.

  “That’s what I want you to find out, Archy,” she pleaded.

  13

  I ARRIVED AT THE JUNO COTTAGE just in time to catch the last five minutes of Casablanca. Bergman, in her lovely wide-brimmed hat, was kissing Bogart, in his lovely wide-brimmed hat, goodbye, before flying off with Paul Henreid and leaving Bogey to saunter off into the fog, arm in arm with Claude Rains.

  Georgy, in pigtails, slacks and one of my shirts, sleeves rolled to her pretty elbows, was dabbing at her eyes. “It always gets me right here,” she said, pointing a thumb at where she imagined her heart resided.

  I kissed her cheek and inhaled the tantalizing scent of lavender soap which said Georgy had soaked in a bubble bath in anticipation of joining Bogart and Bergman in Rick’s Café-American—no doubt humming the film’s nostalgic theme song. Georgy loves to relax in a bubble bath, lavender or jasmine, after a tough day ticketing speeders on Interstate 95. I have, on more than one occasion, joined her in the aromatic and effervescent waters but that, too, is another story—and it beats playing with a rubber duck, let me tell you.

  Georgy returned my kiss with ardor, no doubt inspired by Bergman’s performance. I did the gentlemanly thing and responded in kind. Not an hour ago I was captivated by the freckled face of Marge Macurdy, but now it was Georgy’s impeccable peaches and cream complexion that tickled my fancy. There’s a song (by Sigmund Romberg, perhaps?) that was written with me in mind, I’m sure. When I’m not near the girl I love, I love the girl I’m near. Go on, call me a cad. See if I care.

  “You should give that suit to Goodwill,” she noted, eyeing me up and down. “They might find someone it would fit.”

  “Cute, Georgy girl. Real cute. Living so far from the ocean I have neglected my daily two-mile swims in the surf and have put on a pound or two. I intend to lose them momentarily.”

  “How? By taking off the suit?”

  “For starters, yes.”

  I left the parlor, went past the galley kitchen and turned left to enter the bedroom. That, plus the bath off the bedroom, constitutes the cottage. I began to get out of my tan gabardine straitjacket and when I was down to my briefs in walks Georgy.

  “Don’t you believe in knocking?” I scolded.

  “Why? It’s my house.”

  “And what am I? Your concubine?”

  “Sure.
And I’m the pharaoh disguised as a woman.” She put her arms around my waist and squeezed. “You’re getting love handles.”

  Feigning indifference, I said, “So you heard about Witch Hazel?”

  “Who hasn’t?” She pinched me where once a crab had nipped me while I was skinny dipping with Connie. Now how did Connie get into this?

  “Let me put on a shirt,” I begged, modestly.

  “Which shirt?”

  “The one you’re wearing, that’s which shirt.”

  We laughed, kissed and fell onto the bed where she traded her shirt for my...

  An hour later I came out of the shower wrapped in a terry robe and found my girl pouring a white Orvieto Classico into two chilled wineglasses. A chicken, roasted and missing a leg and hip joint, sat on the table in the breakfast nook.

  “I made it myself,” Georgy boasted. “Are you hungry?”

  “Starved. Toast some bread and I’ll have a chicken breast sandwich with mayo.” I picked up the two glasses and handed one to her. “You are lovely,” I whispered.

  “So are you,” she answered.

  “But not as lovely as you,” I insisted.

  “Okay, you win,” she surrendered with a resigned shrug.

  She put two pieces of rye in the toaster (I have outlawed soggy white bread) and I got a carving knife from the kitchen cupboard and began slicing the bird’s breast which glowed a golden brown. It came away white and succulent.

  “Did you really roast this?” I questioned.

  “Who else. It’s the cook’s day off.”

  From the refrig she extracted a salad bowl containing freshly washed and cut iceberg and romaine lettuce, a quartered tomato and thin slices of cucumber. Basic, but for Georgy girl an overwhelming culinary achievement. Before my arrival on the scene her salads were whatever side dish came from a variety of ethnic take-out establishments.