McNally's Bluff

by Vincent Lardo

  He appeared more perplexed than ever. Shaking his head, he asked, “Tilly told you this?”

  “She did, sir. When I was here yesterday, Tilly passed me a note, requesting that I meet with her in our local bookstore. I did, and she told me what I’ve just told you.”

  He took this in, seemingly amazed, before posing in awe, “But why didn’t she tell me? I don’t get it.”

  “Why didn’t she tell the police, sir, is more to the point. However, Tilly believes, or so she said, that your wife and Carolyn Taylor were meeting in secret. That is, without your knowledge. If Tilly told you about Carolyn Taylor’s alleged trip to the second floor that night, she would be forced to tell you about those meetings and did not want to betray her mistress, or even the memory of her mistress.”

  Quickly sizing up the situation, Hayes immediately began defending Tilly. “She’s a good kid. Always has been. Appreciates how we got her out of that diner and took her on the road with us.”

  He began waving that imaginary baton as he did when addressing his guests the night of the gala that ended in murder. It was a gesture more attuned to a crowd than an audience of one. There were moments when I felt the need to duck.

  “Sure,” he was proclaiming, “she wouldn’t know that Marlena and Carolyn were old friends, and Marlena and I never discussed Carolyn in front of Tilly, and that’s a fact. Poor kid. It was weighing on Tilly, so she came to you because I hired you to look into Marlena’s death. She did right in my opinion.”

  “She would have done better telling the police what she saw.”

  “In our business, McNally, we don’t go to the police. They come to us.”

  I refrained from telling him that Tilly’s reason for shunning the police was fear of implicating Carolyn Taylor because I didn’t believe it. Also, it would compel Hayes to again extol on the virtues of innocent Tilly.

  Instead, I lectured, “I told the police because it’s my duty to help, not hinder, their investigation. I work with the police, Mr. Hayes, I told you that when you hired me. But before going to the police, I went to see Carolyn Taylor and told her what Tilly was claiming she witnessed that night.”

  Grinning, he said, “And Carolyn denied it.”

  I nodded. “Who do you believe, Mr. Hayes?”

  He sank back into the divan and his elevators rose from the floor. He opened his arms, looked at the ceiling, folded his arms across his chest, then opened them again. A mime depicting bewilderment. “Why would Tilly lie, but why would Carolyn want to do in poor Marlena?”

  “Do you know Laddy Taylor, sir?”

  He began by shaking his head before looking up and exclaiming, “Tilly’s guy. Right?” Making a fist, he tapped his forehead as one would knock on wood to avert trouble. “He’s Carolyn’s stepson and they’re at each other’s throats over the old man’s will. Tilly’s mentioned it but I don’t pay much attention to girl talk. I’m sure Marlena knew all about it from Carolyn but she never told me. So what’s this got to do with anything, McNally?”

  Right here, I decided that Matthew Hayes had just over played his hand. The competent actor had crossed the line from drama to farce, probably because farce was the main stay of his repertoire. He didn’t listen to girl talk? Sure, and Macurdy’s cameraman had disappeared along with the unseen footage of the maze. Everyone is lying and no one is telling the truth now becomes, one lies and the other swears to it.

  To utter yet another cliché, What a can of worms. But I must say I find clichés remarkably satisfying. They say it all in the fewest possible words—and everyone understands what you mean.

  As they had taught me in drama class at Yale (before they asked me to leave), if you find yourself in a farce, play it for all it’s worth—so going for the Tony, Obie and Oscar, I told Hayes all about Laddy and Carolyn and Marlena and digitalis, leaving out nothing including Laddy’s try at exhuming his father’s body.

  Hayes, with eyes like saucers, shook his head in disbelief. When I had done, he pronounced it, “Manure in its purest form.”

  Although I wasn’t sure how he would react, this denouncement of Laddy caught me off guard. I was confused, at the very least, but wasn’t confusion the hallmark of farce, as well as that of a three-card monte dealer?

  “Marlena wouldn’t do murder,” Hayes protested. “She was into the occult scam but I think she was beginning to believe she really had the gift, and she helped girls in trouble. Abortions, if you must know. It’s not illegal. She used a tonic an old Waco Indian woman gave her when we camped outside of Enid one season. If it contained digitalis, I never knew it. So if Carolyn put her husband to rest, she did it without Marlena’s help.”

  “Then Carolyn would have no reason to harm Marlena.” I quickly got it.

  “Of course not,” Hayes responded. “But...”

  I waited in silence and when I was sure he wasn’t going to continue, I prompted, “But what, Mr. Hayes?”

  “Look,” he said, leaning forward, his feet touching the floor, “I taught Marlena all the tricks of our craft and she was a quick learner. Maybe too quick. She was pulling off things I would never sanction. Foolish stuff. Too risky. I’ve been thinking that’s what got her done in. Some old score, coming home to roost. Marlena got greedy, McNally, and now I’m wondering...”

  Another dramatic pause as I chuckled silently at the pot calling the kettle black. (For those who are keeping score, that was cliché number three.)

  “How much did Carolyn Taylor come into when her husband died?” Hayes suddenly wondered.

  “It’s only a guess, but I heard somewhere in the neighborhood of a hundred million, give or take.”

  He whistled, long and loud, through his teeth. “That much?”

  “Are you saying, Mr. Hayes, that Marlena might have been pressing Carolyn for a share of that money? Pay me or I go public with the life and times of Carolyn Taylor. Cocktail waitress, cruise hostess and stuff like that there?”

  “Between us, McNally, the girls turned a few tricks in their time, but don’t quote me on any of this. As I used to say to the sheriff when he came snooping, I’m here to fix the copy machine, sir, and just leaving.”

  He sure did have a way with words, I’ll give him that for whatever it’s worth, and the more he spoke the more convoluted his reasoning. He had slowly, and cleverly, chipped away at his earlier defense of Carolyn Taylor.

  “I’ll keep it in mind, Mr. Hayes,” I said. “And on the subject of turning tricks, as you put it, Tilly didn’t waste much time getting herself a gentleman caller here in Palm Beach.”

  He shot me that grin which could denote amusement, innocent mischief or, like now, lechery. Remarkable. “One time, I think it was in Biloxi, Tilly went to town for aspirin and came back with the pharmacist.” He laughed. I didn’t.

  Changing lanes without signaling, I inquired, “Are you still planning on going on the tube with Mack Macurdy?”

  “You don’t like Macurdy, do you?” he accused.

  “I think he’s using your wife’s murder to advance his career and riling a lot of people who don’t know any better but to believe his nonsense.”

  Hayes waved this off with his invisible baton. “And I told you yesterday that I liked him for just that reason. Does it sound gross because it’s my wife’s murder that’s given Macurdy a shove up the ladder? So be it, McNally.

  “I’m a grifter, second generation. Once Marlena’s murder is solved, if it’s ever solved, don’t think I’m not going to use it to my advantage. The maze can be a bigger attraction than Disney’s amusement park because there’s nothing like a mystery to tickle the slobs. I’ll do it not to defile Marlena, but to honor her. She would love it because she was a grifter too, by marriage. You want to see me cry, McNally, catch me on Macurdy’s show.”

  The man was beneath contempt—a king of knaves who was proud of the title. But did that make him a murderer? No, but like his wife, he might just end up a corpse in the goal of his maze when the citizens of Palm Beach got wind of hi
s Disneyesque caprice. The thought gives credence to the theory of justifiable homicide.

  “Then I’m sure you’ll enjoy hearing how Mack Macurdy made the goal that night,” I announced with relish.

  “How’s that?” he all but sneered.

  “When he went over the maze in a helicopter a few, weeks ago he took along a telescopic camera. I believe he pieced together the resulting snaps and got himself a true picture of the grid. He either made a map or memorized the layout and after giving himself enough time to divert suspicion, he went straight to the mark.”

  For a moment Hayes’s grimace seemed to express annoyance with my report but seconds later he tossed back his head and laughed with glee. “So that’s how he did it,” he uttered between gales of laughter. “You know what, McNally? Now I like him more than ever, but I have to reciprocate. I mean I can’t let him have the last word. No, sir. I’m going on his show and when he least expects it I’m going to expose his stunt to the world and demand the return of those certificates.” This brought on another fit of laughter.

  “And not a word to him about this, McNally. Remember who you’re working for.”

  While he was in this jocular mood I hit him with, “Just what else did Macurdy learn from those photographs, sir?”

  He greeted this in the manner of a bartender welcoming Carrie Nation to his saloon. “What are you talking about?”

  “Macurdy has been bragging about the viability of his future in show business. In short, he’s got himself a backer and I was wondering if you were the guy with deep pockets.”

  Given Hayes’s self-portrait, I was loath to use the show biz term “angel” to denote his sponsorship. The wee people with wings and harps would surely take a dim view of such a comparison and get me for it. I’m not superstitious, I’m cautious.

  “How do you know all this?” he asked, not sounding very pleased with the investigative expertise of his employee. “Why are you tailing Macurdy?”

  “I’m not tailing him,” I protested. “I’m investigating your wife’s murder at your request. The first thing one asks in a murder case is, who profits from the crime? Mack Macurdy seems to be a beneficiary, as does Carolyn Taylor if she feared Marlena knew too much about Mr. Taylor’s death. Today, I am giving you the first results of my labor and you seem more perturbed than pleased.”

  I got the grin of atonement. “No offense,” he said. “It’s just that all this has taken me by surprise. Tilly seeing Carolyn that night, this Laddy guy, and now Macurdy. I don’t know what to believe. But let me set you straight on Mack Macurdy. He’s been here a few times, wanting to get me on his show. I never met him before and I don’t know a thing about his prospects, but have you asked Carolyn if she’s heard from Macurdy?”

  “Carolyn?” I was nonplussed and didn’t try to hide it.

  “Sure. Carolyn. She’s the lady with deeper pockets than mine and, from what you just told me, she’s got something to hide and maybe Macurdy knows what it is.”

  Gadzooks! Why didn’t I think of that? Carolyn Taylor. Cool, calm and collected Carolyn Taylor. She called Tilly a liar and told me Marlena was going to leave Matthew Hayes. Recalling this, I thought I should caution my client.

  “You should be aware, sir, that Carolyn Taylor is claiming Marlena was getting ready to divorce you.”

  He leaped off the divan raised his fists toward heaven and...

  “I’m home, sir.”

  We both turned to see Tilly standing in the doorway. Forgoing what was surely to be a tirade against Carolyn Taylor, he rushed toward his maid who met him half way. They collided in a warm embrace with Hayes nestling his nose into her ample bosom. (Well, it was as high as his nose could reach.)

  “Did they give you the third degree, Tilly?”

  Really!

  18

  I STAYED LONG ENOUGH to hear Tilly’s account of her third degree at the hands of the Marquis de Oscar Eberhart. The story of what she had witnessed that night corresponded, word for word, with what she had told me in the bookstore. The only difference was that today her eyes were not hidden behind those dark glasses and gazed upon us as clear and unblinking as her tale.

  “You should have come straight to me,” Hayes said when Tilly was done. “I knew Marlena was seeing Mrs. Taylor. They were friends.”

  I cut in with, “You two can discuss all that when I’m gone. Right now I want to ask Tilly a few questions.” When neither protested I turned to Tilly and said, “I told you yesterday I had to report your claim to the police and to Mr. Hayes. It was my duty to do so.”

  “I understand, Mr. McNally,” she assured me.

  “You told me you had confided in one other person before speaking to me. Correct?” She nodded and I continued, “Was that person Laddy Taylor?”

  “It was,” she said.

  “And did Laddy Taylor tell you to come to me with your story?”

  “Oh, no, sir. Laddy wanted me to go to the police. He kept insisting and I didn’t know what to do. When Mr. Hayes told me you were coming here yesterday, and that he was going to employ you to look into Madame’s death, I decided to tell you what I had seen.”

  “You did right, Tilly,” Hayes consoled her. He was certainly solicitous to his wife’s handmaiden, but that didn’t mean there was anything more between them than a good working relationship. I also pondered what Tilly’s position was now that Madame was out of the picture. Would she stay on as—what? Housekeeper, secretary, chauffeur, or work the box office when the maze was opened to the public? (And may the latter never happen.)

  “And you still believe Mrs. Taylor went upstairs when the lights went out and the spotlight came on?”

  “I only know, sir, that I saw her on the second-floor landing a moment before Madame went on,” Tilly maintained, yet again.

  “She saw what she saw,” Hayes, at his most cantankerous, badgered me.

  “My problem, Mr. Hayes,” I said, turning to him, “is that Carolyn Taylor would have no way of knowing the lights would go out and a spotlight come on to illuminate your wife’s tableau. Could she have come prepared with a lethal dose of digitalis just in case the opportunity presented itself? Did she know Tilly had the tea water ready to boil at that time? It all seems most unlikely, sir.”

  I was also sure Carolyn Taylor was not carrying a purse that night, so she must have checked it with the attendants as did most of the women. If so, where had she hidden the vial of digitalis? Given what she was wearing, it certainly wasn’t on her person. I didn’t share this with Hayes and Tilly because I wasn’t positive on this point and also because I wanted to keep a few cards face down for the present.

  I was hardly finished when Hayes questioned Tilly. “When was the last time Marlena met with Mrs. Taylor?”

  “I’m not sure, sir, but I would say it was two or three days before the party.”

  “In short, McNally,” Hayes trumpeted with great glee, “just when we had worked out the presentation skit and began rehearsing it. Marlena told Carolyn what was going to happen that night, including the search for the goal.”

  “But she didn’t give Carolyn the key to the grid,” I pointed out.

  “She didn’t have it. Only I had one and now the police have it.”

  Poppycock. Hayes wouldn’t have surrendered that map without a fight if he didn’t have a copy someplace in the house, but this was all beside the point. Tilly’s story was riddled with holes and how did Marlena end up in the maze? This last thought I uttered aloud.

  “Only the murderer knows,” Hayes said. “Find him, or her, and the mystery is solved.”

  The common denominator was always that damn maze. Was it the red herring? Like the magician’s sleight of hand, were all our eyes glued to that meandering hedgerow when they should have been elsewhere? But where? That was the rub.

  “Now Carolyn is saying Marlena and me were on the outs,” Hayes was informing Tilly who all but gasped at the very thought.

  “That’s a lie, Mr. McNally,” Tilly wailed.
“I told you Madame and Mr. Hayes were a happy couple, and I’ll swear to that in a court of law.”

  One lies, and the other swears to it.

  I left Tilly and Matthew Hayes to talk behind my back the moment I was out of earshot. What I wouldn’t give to be privy to that gabfest. I told Hayes I would be in touch.

  “You think the police will arrest Carolyn?” he asked.

  “The police can only make an arrest with hard, provable evidence to present to the District Attorney. Ms. Thompson’s accusation is neither. Not to belabor a point, but it’s her word against Carolyn Taylor’s.”

  “I’m telling what I saw,” Tilly reminded us, yet again.

  In a manner that was more threat than question, Hayes mocked, “Who are you betting on, McNally?”

  “I’m not a betting man, sir.”

  He let that go. “You have any leads you’re not telling me?”

  “I’ve told you everything I’ve learned to date, sir.”

  “Which isn’t much,” he scoffed. “I think you should question Carolyn again.”

  “I intend to do just that, sir.”

  “When?” he retorted, in that supercilious manner I so deplored.

  With a smile as false as his candor, I said, “Day after tomorrow. She’s taking me sailing. No, don’t get up. I’ll find my way out.”

  The feeling of elation I had experienced at ocean Helicopters was fast ebbing. Hayes had that effect on my psyche. I was spinning my wheels on this lousy case.

  Slip-sliding away from a solution with every step I took toward it.

  Who profits from Marlena Marvel’s death? I had given Hayes two prospects: Macurdy and Carolyn Taylor. I had purposely omitted two others. The lady’s husband—if she was going to leave him and take the better part of his fortune with her. And, indirectly, Laddy Taylor, if Carolyn was found guilty of Marlena’s murder.

  As I pulled out of Hayes’s driveway I returned to pondering over the uncanny luck Laddy Taylor had in Marlena Marvel’s death by digitalis poisoning, and teaming up with Tilly who saw Carolyn Taylor on the second floor landing that night. Was it luck, or happenstance—or clever plotting?