McNally's Bluff

by Vincent Lardo

  “What in God’s name is going on in your playground, Archy?” Georgy broke the spell.

  “My guess is that Macurdy’s angel turned out to be an avenging angel,” I said, sipping the cold brew in my mug and wincing.

  “I’ll lay you seven to five that he died of digitalis poisoning,” Georgy speculated. “And I’ll go twelve to seven that Matthew Hayes was home all last night with his maid to vouch for him.”

  “He’s smarter than that, Georgy girl. I’ll bet Hayes was home last night with several guests to prove it. And one, a lady no doubt, even spent the night to give him wall-to-wall alibis.”

  “I thought he was prostrate with grief,” Georgy said.

  “I’ll buy the prostrate part, but no more.”

  “Beware the guy with the airtight alibi,” my police person warned me. “And don’t forget, Hayes had a house full of people the night his wife bought the farm. Maybe it’s his modus operandi.”

  “We don’t know that Mack was blackmailing Hayes. Maybe he just got lucky and his luck ran out last night.”

  “Under the bridge in Bryant Park? He was dumped there, Archy, with a belly full of digitalis, and you heard it here first. You might also want to find out where the widow Taylor was last night.”

  I started to laugh. “Maybe she spent the night with Hayes and Bob’s your uncle.”

  “And Laddy Taylor?”

  “He was in bed with Tilly,” I teased. “A ménage á quatre at Le Maze.”

  “What about Billy?”

  “Okay, a ménage á cinq, if you will.”

  “That’s gross,” Georgy reproached me.

  How strange women are. There was nothing gross about the quatre, but the cinq got her. Maybe it was the odd number that repelled.

  “Joe didn’t tell us who Mack went to see last night, or maybe his wife never asked him,” Georgy noted.

  “They know more than they’re saying,” I called, heading for the shower. “You know as well as I do, maybe better, that Joe is reporting only what the police are willing to give out at this point.”

  “Joe is really good, isn’t he, Archy?” she said, looking at Gallo’s handsome face. I must say the TV camera is very kind to Joe Gallo. He’s one of those rare people who photographs even better than he looks. And talking about people who profited from Marlena’s Marvel death, Joe Gallo takes the blue ribbon. From stringer to anchorman over two dead bodies. Hummmm? I wonder. No, Georgy would kill me.

  Suddenly in a rush, I was out of my robe before I reached the bathroom but had no idea where I was rushing off to. Marge was my first choice, if I could see her. I didn’t have a chance of getting near Eberhart this morning, but maybe I could meet up with Al Rogoff. I should check in with my father and could I see Joe and...?

  “Look, there’s Binky,” Georgy screamed.

  I ran back into the parlor, my robe shielding me fore, but not aft, and sure enough, there was Binky Watrous not five feet from where Joe was reporting. It was now after nine and our mail person should be in the McNally Building, sorting the morning delivery, this very moment. I’ll have him fired, I will.

  “And there’s Al Rogoff,” I pointed, losing the robe.

  Georgy grabbed it from the floor and refused to give it back. “Finders keepers, losers weepers,” she recited, running off to the bedroom to dress. Life with Georgy has its ups and downs.

  Did I hear her humming “I Love Paris” just before closing the bathroom door?

  Georgy was out of the cottage before I finished dressing. Given my mission this mournful day, I pulled on a pair of black jeans and a black tee. I reached for a black shirt, thought better of it, and settled for a white-on-white number, topping it with a zippered black windbreaker. Stepping into a pair of white Jack Purcells, I appraised myself in Georgy’s full-length mirror which hangs behind the bedroom closet door, and declared myself perfection. The outfit made a statement without dwelling on the morbid.

  I called Marge before leaving and got a busy signal. Driving south, I stopped at a pancake palace for breakfast. Florida abounds in pancake palaces which differ only in name. Making up for last night’s feast, I went easy with a scrambled egg sandwich, one egg, on rye toast, and a glass of grapefruit juice. I had a cuppa and took a container to go.

  Back in the Miata I opened the glove compartment and extracted a pack of English Ovals. I actually had one between my lips before returning it to the pack and replacing the pack in the glove compartment, which I locked. Victory? I do think so. Did it make me feel happy and healthy? Hell, no. I felt depressed, jittery and in need of a cigarette. I put the container in a holder I had attached to the dashboard and drove unhappily off.

  At the office I listened to my messages. Three from Hayes, yesterday; two from Mrs. Trelawney, yesterday; one from Hayes, this morning, and ditto from Mrs. Trelawney. In a burst of creativity I got a roll of masking tape from my desk, cut out a one-inch square and pasted it over the red light. Depression and the jitters disappeared.

  I called Marge and got a busy signal.

  I called Hayes and got him. “Macurdy croaked,” he bellowed, piously. “What do you make of it?”

  “I’ve no idea, Mr. Hayes. I doubt if I can talk to my police connections this early and I can’t get his wife on the phone. What do you make of it?”

  “You thought he was leaning on someone. Well, could be they leaned back, real hard. Where was Carolyn last night?”

  “I’ll ask when I see her. Where were you last night, sir?”

  “You’re working for me, McNally.”

  “You keep reminding me of that fact, sir. I ask only because Mrs. Macurdy has stated that Mack went to interview a potential guest for their show. Was it you?”

  “Me? I had company last night. The carnies who worked my party. They’re folding their tent in Miami and moving on. A few stayed the night.”

  Just as I thought. I wished Georgy were here so I could gloat. “What do they think of your wife’s death? Do they have any idea how she got from the house to the goal?”

  “They offered their condolences, nothing more. In our trade you don’t pry, McNally, and you expect others to reciprocate.”

  The carny version of judge not, lest you be judged. “Do you think Macurdy’s death has anything do with Marlena’s?” I pried.

  “Not directly,” he said, “if you rule out Carolyn. But those telecasts of his attracted a lot of kooks—you know what I mean?”

  I knew, and I had had similar thoughts. So, I’m sure, had the police. “When was the last time you saw Macurdy?” I pried once more.

  He hesitated as if trying to recall. “I think it was day before yesterday. Yeah, it was. He was here just before you came that day. Why?”

  “Just curious.” Hayes gave no indication—nary a hint—that Macurdy was in any way troublesome to the residents of Le Maze or that Macurdy was in any way connected with Marlena Marvel. And, beware the guy with the airtight alibi.

  “Let me know what you find out, McNally. I’m curious, too.”

  “Of course I will, Mr. Hayes. I work for you, remember?”

  I got a cynical “Ha-ha,” before he cut me off.

  I called Marge and got a busy signal. How many busy signals must one get before conceding that the lady’s phone is off its cradle?

  I called Oscar Eberhart and was told he was not available. “No, sir. I have no idea when he will be available.”

  “Is Sergeant Rogoff in the station house?”

  “No, sir, he is not.”

  I called Al’s home and got no response and, being a very wise man, Al does not subscribe to voice mail. “If I ain’t at home, they’ll call again if it’s important. If it ain’t important, screw it. That’s how I see it, buddy.”

  Al, like clichés, says it all in twenty-five words or less that leave no doubt as to where he stands on the subject.

  Enter Binky Watrous. Enter a very excited Binky Watrous. “What do you think, Archy?”

  “I think you should get to work o
n time, young man, that’s what I think.”

  “They closed the bridge until they removed poor Mack. I was stuck in Lake Worth,” he lied. Binky lies almost as well as yrs. truly because of those liquid brown eyes. Now, he appeared to be crying over the bridge’s interference with his work ethic.

  “Since when do you take the Lake Worth bridge to work?”

  “Since they found Mack Macurdy’s body practically under it.”

  Such insolence. I imagine this comes with being on television at nine o’clock in the morning. But I rather liked this new Binky and perhaps women younger than Mrs. Trelawney would now find him more attractive. Had I lost a son and gained a competitor? I have heard of worse things, but I couldn’t think of two.

  Taking my cue from Georgy, I said, “I think Macurdy was murdered and his body dumped in the park. What does Joe think?”

  “The police are not telling all they know,” Binky confided.

  “They never do. Was Joe able to learn anything?”

  “There’s something fishy about Mack’s body, Archy.”

  “Other than its odor? He was a few feet from the lake.”

  Corny, I know, and perhaps a bit irreverent, but I can’t help myself. Is there a twelve-step program for punsters? If not, there should be.

  Binky, so enraptured by his news he kept bouncing up and down on the soles of his Wal-Mart sneakers, gushed, “The body was covered, Archy. Joe said when he got there he asked if he could see the body since he was Macurdy’s colleague. Just him. No video cameramen. They refused.

  “Then one of the people in the park told Joe that he was there when the police arrived and they immediately formed a blue wall, actually arm in arm, to keep the body hidden. When the ambulance arrived the paramedics put a blanket over Mack and the police broke ranks.”

  “But the police told Joe there were no marks or bruises on the body,” I said.

  “I know, Archy, but why wouldn’t they let Joe see it? When Joe got hold of the woman who first saw Mack lying there, he asked her if she had got a close look at the body and she said she was told by the police not to answer any questions. Remember, it was all confusion at this point, but when the chief saw her talking to Joe, he came over, took her by the arm, and led her out of the park and into his car.”

  Now that was news. Very strange news. I had to see Marge. She would have viewed the body to make the formal ID. “Was Marge in the park, Binky?”

  “No. She stayed in the studio until Eberhart came for her. He must have taken her to the morgue for ID.”

  “Just what I thought,” I said. “Has Joe been in touch with her?”

  “Sure. They spoke several times after Joe got off camera. He has her cell number.”

  Which is just what I wanted. I would have kissed Binky, but with his newly found confidence I wasn’t sure how he would take it. “Can you get Joe on his cell? I need Marge’s cell number.”

  No sooner said than done. Binky pulled his cell out of his jacket pocket and punched out Joe’s number. “By now he must be at the studio, getting into makeup for the noon newsbreak.”

  Makeup! So that’s how he does it.

  “I’m with Archy, Joe. He needs Marge’s cell number. He doesn’t know anything. I told him about the body.” To me, he said, “When can you meet with Joe?”

  “Today is out. I’ve got to see Marge and my father, and try to get Eberhart or Al to sit down with me.” I didn’t mention that I also wanted to see Carolyn Taylor because I didn’t want to give Joe any more fodder for the noon news-break. “What about tonight?”

  “Tonight, Joe?” Binky said into the new millennium marvel. Pause. “No can do. He’s been invited to dine with the Fitzwilliams’s.”

  Well, well, well. Joe was certainly rubbing shoulders on Ocean Boulevard. I never remember Fitz asking a boy to dine with the family. Lolly would report this with great relish, and envy, as I’m sure he had given Lady C the Helen of Troy/Paris suggestion just to get Joe in that pleated skirt—and nothing more. As Billy S so aptly put it, “Oh, what fools these mortals be.”

  Tomorrow, Saturday, was out as I had that boat ride. “Tell him Monday is the best I can do. And get Marge’s cell number.”

  Binky took a pad and pencil from my desk and jotted it down for me. “I’ll catch you on the noon newsbreak,” he said to his new idol. Well, at least he wasn’t humming “I Love Paris.”

  When I got Marge on the phone my heart went out to her. “Archy,” she sobbed, “it’s so horrible. I’m home. Can you come right over?”

  “I’m on my way,” I promised.

  “Do you know where I live?”

  “As a matter of fact, I don’t.”

  “My dear Archy, you can always make me smile. Bless you.”

  She gave me the name of her condo complex which I knew very well. The Macurdys were not poor.

  21

  AS I PULLED INTO the visitor’s parking space, I noticed a clique of men, about a half dozen, chatting and smoking just across the street, all but blocking the entrance to the Everglades Club. Reporters—distinguished by their inability to stand still, the pencils tucked behind their ears, and the slouch hats perched in a variety of angles on their heads.

  Mack Macurdy had happily attained national attention with his unorthodox coverage of the Marlena Marvel murder and now his new widow was going to reap the dubious rewards. The Everglades regulars, who like to keep a low profile, would frown upon this conclave of fourth-estaters on the steps of their temple.

  The doorman asked my business and I told him I was there to see Mrs. Macurdy.

  “Your name, sir?”

  “McNally.”

  Looking a bit apologetic he asked, “May I see your ID, sir?”

  “Are things that bad?” I griped, pulling my wallet out of my back pocket.

  With a nod toward the front door, he answered, “That crowd out there storms the gate every half hour. In case you don’t know, several are her brothers, two are her uncles and one is an insurance claims adjuster.” He looked at my driver’s license photo, glanced at me, and handed it back.

  “She’s expecting you, Mr. McNally. Four A. Fourth floor.”

  Marge checked me out through the peep hole before unbolting the door. I walked into a spacious entrance foyer carpeted in a plush, teal blue, wall-to-wall. Beyond was an immense living room with a row of unadorned windows facing the Atlantic. It was all light, bright and airy, but the now solitary resident was anything but.

  She fell into my open arms and sobbed hysterically. I patted her back, stroked her hair and said not a word. What could I say?

  “I was mad at him,” she got out between sobs. “I hated what he was doing on the show—the way he was bossing everyone at the studio, including me—I wished him dead and now he is dead.”

  More tears have been shed over answered prayers than those that go unfulfilled.

  “We all have such thoughts,” I whispered into her hair. “Don’t dwell on it. You’re not responsible for what happened to Mack.”

  She had been with the police all morning and I suspected this was the first time she was out of the public eye and able to vent her emotions. She felt soft and warm and vulnerable in my arms and I had to keep reminding myself the reason I was here. “Let’s go inside and sit, Marge.”

  Standing back I was shocked to see her red, swollen eyes and pitiful face. She must have been made up for the show this morning and never removed it. Her tears and a succession of tissues had streaked the mascara and grease paint, leaving her looking like a little girl who had gotten into Mommy’s vanity case.

  The large room was furnished in white leather couches and easy chairs. The tables were glass and chrome. The wall art displayed postmodernism at its nadir, and a bar at one end of the room (more glass and chrome) was backed by a mirrored wall.

  Seeing my rather startled gaze, Marge said, “It came furnished. Mack loved it.” This caused her to giggle nervously, and I joined in.

  I declared the decor “As w
arm and cozy as an igloo.”

  “The network rented it and they pay the monthly tab. It’s one of the perks of our contract.”

  I wanted to ask her if I could see the bedroom, but didn’t dare. We sat on the slippery leather couch, Marge’s hand in mine. “I heard Joe’s coverage this morning so we can skip all that. Did you ED the body?”

  She nodded and shuddered. “It’s horrible, Archy.” I feared she was going to resume the crying jag but, thankfully, she didn’t.

  “You mean Mack’s death?”

  “No,” she cried. “I mean, yes...”

  “Would you like a drink?” I offered.

  “No. I don’t want to start that. Not now. It’s too early.”

  “Can I brew a pot of coffee?”

  “No, Archy, thank you. If I have another cup of coffee today I’ll be awake for the rest of my life. Have you ever tasted the coffee at the county morgue?”

  I thought of Georgy’s instant blend as I shook my head. Horrible was a strange way of expressing grief, so I asked again, “What was horrible, Marge?”

  “What they did to him,” she said, her eyes glassing over.

  “I thought he wasn’t abused physically. That’s what Joe reported.”

  She was crying again. “He wasn’t.” She touched her forehead. “Here. It was painted here.”

  “A message?” I was stunned.

  “A sign,” she said. “An occult sign. A five-pointed star within a circle.”

  A pentagram within a circle—where had I seen that before?

  “It was painted on his forehead,” she sobbed. “It was grotesque.”

  “Painted with what, Marge? Lipstick, crayon, ink?”

  She buried her face in her hands. “Blood—it was painted in blood—the medical examiner confirmed it was blood. And there was something in his mouth.”

  “Easy, easy,” I pleaded. “You don’t have to tell me now. Take a deep breath and look up at me.”

  Raising her head she turned to me and recounted, “There was a leaf stuffed into his mouth. Do I have to tell you what it was?”