McNally's Bluff

by Vincent Lardo

  Foxglove. It couldn’t be clearer if the murderer had left a calling card. Or had he left a calling card? The pentagram and circle. I could see it in my mind’s eye. Could see it branded into human flesh. Whose? When? Where?

  Had some crazy satanic cult taken revenge on Mack for blaspheming their beliefs? Or had some clever assassin planted the red herrings to make the police think just that? Any more red herrings and we could open a fish store.

  It was now perfectly clear why the police were keeping this under wraps. After the way Macurdy had incited the public with his dark forces routine they would have a riot on their hands if this went public.

  First the maze, now an occult sign and leaf, to keep our eyes on the hole instead of the donut.

  “The police are putting out a call for that silly witch and Zemo the nut, as well as the poor old Seminole Mack dug up and a few others he had on the show,” Marge was saying with disgust. “They’re all phonies and the police know it.”

  “But they must do it,” I told her. “They can leave no stone unturned because under the one ignored could lie the answer.”

  “You don’t believe this was the work of some demonic cult or coven, do you, Archy?”

  “No, my dear, I don’t. I think there’s a connection between Mack and Marlena Marvel.”

  “I told you Mack’s euphoria began the day after Marlena’s death and you said it began when Mack found the goal.” She was more composed now, her interest in the mystery usurping for the moment her anguish over this morning’s cataclysm. “You wanted to know the name of the helicopter service Mack employed for his ride over the goal. You think he discovered the key to the grid from that ride, don’t you?”

  “I think, Marge, he discovered more than that. Remember I said Mack knew something, but he didn’t know what he knew until after Marlena’s murder. I’ll qualify that and now say he didn’t know the value of his discovery until after her death.”

  “He knew who killed Marlena,” she concluded.

  “No,” I said, “but I think he knew how it was done, which might, or might not, be the same thing. I’ve learned that Mack took a telescopic camera with him on that helicopter trek and from those photos got a clear picture of the grid. Hence, he found the goal.” Not wishing to speak ill of the dead, I didn’t tell her that her husband took those photos for no other reason than to snoop and obtain a key to the grid.

  “He hired the copter and the cameraman at his own expense, but he never told me about the still photos,” she assured me. “I should have known he was up to something when he kept insisting that he would make the goal.”

  “I think he also found something else,” I repeated.

  “If he was killed because of what he knew about the maze, isn’t it obvious who his killer is?” she cried.

  “You mean Matthew Hayes, and I’m afraid it’s anything but obvious, Marge. All I’m doing is guessing that Mack found more than the key to the grid on that romp. A wild guess at that. I talked to Hayes this morning and he seems as shocked by Mack’s murder as the rest of us.”

  I purposely downplayed my distrust of Hayes and his maid because I wanted to broach another candidate for Mack’s elusive angel. Given the time and place, it was a most delicate undertaking. Carefully choosing my words, I asked, “Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to help Mack financially? I mean put up money for his TV pilot?”

  “You mean a woman?” she shot back, a teasing smile on her lips. I must have forgotten I was talking to a very perceptive lady. “Don’t be embarrassed, Archy. Mack had a lot of female fans and given our venue many of them were rich and unscrupulous—and Mack wasn’t faithful.”

  “I didn’t ask you that,” I cut in.

  “But I’m telling you anyway. Mack and I have not been getting along since we came down here to do the show. In fact I would have left him in New York if the deal with the network hadn’t included the two of us, as a team.”

  Was she telling me this as a way of saying that if I wanted to make a pitch, the road was clear? To say that I wasn’t interested would be a lie. But again, this was neither the time nor the place to test her motive, tempted though I was. Am I a cad, or only human, or is there no difference?

  “This doesn’t mean his death is any less traumatic for me. Especially the way he died. We had many good years...” and she again broke down.

  I waited for the moment to pass before asking, “Was Carolyn Taylor one of those women?”

  “You mean the woman who was left a fortune when her husband died? She was at the party, wasn’t she? Mack never mentioned her to me—but then he never discussed any of his liaisons. Mack was crude, not sadistic. Why do you think he knew her?”

  “Just another wild guess and too complicated to explain at the moment, so forget I asked. Do you know who Mack went to see last night?”

  Marge shook her curly head. “I don’t know. The police have asked me that again and again, and I don’t know. I was furious with the guests he was booking so when he said he was off to interview a prospect I pretended disinterest and never asked who it was. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be,” I assuaged her. “What will happen with the show?”

  She shrugged uncaringly. “Tomorrow is Saturday, and we’re dark on Saturday. After that, who knows? Reruns until something is worked out.”

  “Will you continue alone?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know what I’ll do, or even if they’ll want me without Mack. Would you like to be his replacement?”

  Was the double entendre intended or accidental? She looked at her hands and I at the ceiling. It was time to leave, or perhaps past the time to leave. “Have you thought about the arrangements? For Mack, that is.”

  “Private. I don’t want a circus. Does that sound selfish?”

  “Not at all. You’re been through hell today, and it’s just beginning. More of the same you don’t need.” I began getting up. “Now I think you should get some rest, but first take a long hot soak and scrub your face. Your freckles are beginning to show.”

  “Sally, the makeup person at the studio, tells me it takes more grease paint to hide my freckles than they had to use on Katharine Hepburn. I was flattered.”

  “You should be,” I said.

  “Are you going to ride over the maze in a helicopter?” she suddenly blurted.

  “I intend to do just that, Marge.”

  “Please be careful,” she implored. “If that secret got Mack killed...”

  “We don’t know what got Mack killed,” I said. “It could very well be just what it appears to be—the work of a madman.”

  “You don’t believe that,” she challenged.

  “Go wash your face.”

  “It’s an outrage,” Mrs. Trelawney charged the moment I stepped off the elevator. “That nice man. What is happening to our town, Archy? Are there demons among us?”

  How many of Mack Macurdy’s loyal fans were in a state of shock and fear this day? Now I could clearly understand why Marge wanted a private interment. Ancient photos of the weeping women queuing up to view the remains of Valentino were here evoked.

  “We don’t need demons, Mrs. Trelawney. We have just plain folks to do their work.”

  “Who would do such a thing?” she persisted.

  “Someone who didn’t like your matinee idol. Is the boss in?”

  “Yes, and he’s asking for you. Oh, yesterday that awful Mr. Hayes called several times and was most rude.”

  “It’s his nature,” I said, “and I got back to him. I’ll register your complaint when next we meet.”

  “Please do,” Mrs. Trelawney ordered.

  Father looked up from his work as I opened the door and lectured, “The first thing I want you to do is go see your mother. She’s frantic over this new atrocity and worried about you. They say this Macurdy was defaced with a witch’s mark. Is it true?”

  So it was already public knowledge and you didn’t have to be a whiz kid to figure out how that came t
o be. One of the policemen whispered it to his wife, or girlfriend, or boyfriend, and he or she whispered it to their—etc. etc. etc. And let us not forget the jogger who was probably on the horn with everyone she knew as soon as the police released her from custody. By now the rumor had reached Miami and was on its way to Key West.

  I sat, wearily. “It’s true, sir.” Then I unburdened my mind as well as my feet.

  “This is a bad business, Archy.”

  “You’re not telling me anything I don’t know. I’m not sure if Macurdy’s death has anything to do with my case, or if the altercation between Laddy Taylor and his stepmother has anything to do with either murder. I’ve exhausted all the few leads I had and now my only hope is learning something from up there,” I said, jerking a thumb to heaven.

  “Don’t tell your mother you’re going up in that infernal machine,” he warned.

  “I won’t, sir.”

  “And, Archy...”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Do be careful.”

  I stopped in my office and called smilin’ Tom Martin.

  “Have you heard about Mr. Macurdy?” Tom gushed with macabre relish when I identified myself. “They say he was scalped and his private parts taken for a souvenir. Don’t mess with them Seminoles, Mr. McNally.”

  Was I to be spared nothing this dastardly day?

  I made an appointment to fly with Tom on Sunday at ten in the morning.

  “Where are we heading, Mr. McNally?”

  “To the Seminole reservation for lunch.”

  “You got some sense of humor, Mr. McNally.”

  “My grandfather was a comic with the Minsky circuit.”

  “You’re kidding,” Tom laughed.

  “My father wishes I were, Smilin’ Tom.”

  Mother was in her greenhouse, tending her beloved begonias, and, as always, I paused to look in on the tranquil scene before entering. She wore her garden bonnet, apron and gloves as she snipped and fed and talked to her charges. How they flourished under her care. One almost hated to intrude upon the rhapsodic setting I have long thought should be captured on canvas.

  She saw me and waved. I entered the sanctuary and kissed her florid cheek. “I’m so glad you’re here, Archy,” she said.

  “Not as happy as I am to be here, Mother.”

  “Another murder,” she sighed, “and such a cruel one. I hope you’re not looking into it.”

  I avoided answering and cautioned, “Don’t concern yourself with such things, Mother, and keep away from the television and Ursi’s news flashes. It’s all more hearsay than fact, anyway.”

  “If it were up to you and your father I would shut myself off from the world and take up residence here in the greenhouse. Well, I’ll do no such thing, Archy. I may be a little forgetful and my blood pressure may be higher than I’d like it, but I’m perfectly capable of looking, listening and interpreting for myself what I see and hear.”

  I laughed and kissed her again. It did me good to hear her putting me in my place while proclaiming her independence. I must warn father to be less solicitous with his bride as it only encouraged her to rebel. “I’ll get you a soapbox,” I teased.

  “A new pair of garden shears would be more appreciated. These have seen better days—as have their present owner,” she added with a wily smile.

  “Your wish is my command, Mrs. McNally.”

  “Are you staying for dinner, Archy? It’s rack of lamb, your favorite.”

  “I’d love to, Mother, but I promised Georgia I’d dine with her. However, I will take a rain check.”

  “How is Georgia? It’s been so long since I’ve seen her.”

  “She’s well. I’ve invited her to New York for that long weekend I told you about and she’s very excited about going.”

  “That is splendid. It’s been so long since father and I have been to New York and I miss it,” she said.

  “Why don’t you come with us and made it a foursome? Georgia would love it, I’m sure.”

  She brushed this aside with a wave of her hand. “Two’s company and four is a crowd. Isn’t that what they say?”

  “It’s close enough.” I glanced at Mickey’s hands and announced, “Now I really have to go.”

  When I bent to kiss her, she whispered, “Was there really a hex sign branded on that poor man?”

  After her declaration of independence speech I saw no reason not to speak frankly. “Not exactly a hex sign, Mother, and it was painted, not branded.” I was grateful that she didn’t ask in what medium the artist worked. “And don’t tell father I told you. He’ll take a strap to me.”

  “Do be careful, Archy.”

  I practically crawled into the Juno Cottage on my hands and knees. “I’m home, dear.”

  Georgy, standing at the dining table, returned my greeting with, “You look like the wrath of the Medusa.”

  “I’ve had one hell of a day and I need a drink, not your lip.”

  “Martini?” she suggested.

  “No, woman. A real drink. Four fingers of bourbon over rocks.” I had set up a small bar on a converted tea trolley in our small breakfast nook/dining area, which was just off our small galley kitchen in our small cottage. “Do you want a martini?”

  “No. I’ll have a white wine. It’s in the fridge.”

  There were two Cornish hens sitting in a baking dish on the table. “Aren’t they cute?” Georgy cooed.

  “Charming,” I said. “Are they for show or eating?”

  “I was just about to put them in the oven. I’m waiting for it to reach the correct temperature. It’s very important to preheat, Archy.”

  I guessed she had a cookbook hidden someplace in the cottage. I also guessed that fowl, in many sizes and guises, would be her specialty. I got a tray of cubes out of the fridge along with a bottle of white wine. As I poured the wine and my bourbon I envisioned Ursi’s rack of lamb.

  “Cheers, my love.” I drank the amber liquor and immediately felt almost human. “So how was your day?”

  Putting the cute hens in the oven, she said, “Connie called. We’re to pick her up at nine tomorrow morning. We’ll be meeting the others at the marina. The dress code is informal. Now sit down before you keel over and tell me all about it.”

  “You got a full report, I trust.”

  “We did,” she said. “And so did every police precinct in the area. It’s gruesome. A pentagram within a circle. Where have I seen that before?”

  “Funny, I had the same thought,” I told her.

  “Do you want to talk about it? I have some ideas.”

  “Not right now, Georgy. I’ve been thinking about it all day. I want to wash, change and eat the hens. Then we’ll talk.”

  “I bought a new brand of bath salts. Lilac. Why don’t you give them a try.”

  I finished my bourbon and indulged in a refill. “That sounds like just what the doctor ordered, Georgy girl. Join me?”

  “No, Archy. That’s the last thing you need right now.”

  I agreed.

  “Archy!”

  I jumped up out of a sound sleep. “Georgy? What’s wrong?”

  “I just remembered.”

  “It’s the middle of the night. What did you remember?”

  “The pentagram and circle.”

  “You did? Where does it come from?”

  “Lawrence Talbert.”

  I was now fully awake and sitting up. “Who in the name of all that is sacred is Lawrence Talbert?”

  “Lawrence Talbert as portrayed by Lon Chaney in The Wolf Man. The wolf bites Talbert and the next day, on the back of his hand, we see the brand. A pentagram inside a circle.”

  “Swell,” I grumbled. “All we have to do is look for a werewolf.”

  “Or a theatrical enthusiast—goodnight, love.”

  22

  IS THERE ANYTHING MORE representative of opulence than a marina in full swing? What could be more unnecessary to the sustenance of life on this planet than a pleasure craft? From the zi
ppy speed boats, called cigarettes, to the modest Grady Whites, to our forty-foot Hatteras, the marina is a celebration of the winners in the laissez-faire sweepstakes. They who come out with less don’t think it’s fair, but a pox on the spoilsports.

  And what could be more picturesque, exciting and exulting, than a marina at high noon under a cloudless Miami sky and radiant sun? As they say in these parts, nada, chico, nada.

  Walking along the narrow boardwalks to our floating alcazar, I noted the proud owners scraping, painting and hosing their man-o’-(corporate)-wars. It’s said the happiest two days in a boat owner’s life are the day he buys his first boat and the day he sells it. I saw no for-sale signs but perhaps, like previously owned diamonds, discretion is the better part of value [sic].

  Surveying the bobbing sloops, skiffs, dories and dinghies, I am pleased to say we made a handsome sextet. The ladies in shorts which showed their gams to advantage, the gentlemen in white ducks which showed we were more swells than salts. Billy boy’s had the traditional thirteen buttons and flared bottoms which caused my Georgy to nudge me in the ribs and gush, “He’s darling.”

  “You can’t afford him,” I snapped.

  “I can window shop,” she snapped right back. This shameless brazenness I attribute to women’s lib, a movement that heralded the decline of Western civilization. Its fall is imminent.

  Carolyn wore a white blouse that resembled a middy and her sailor’s cap restyled into a cloche. Georgy had commandeered my navy Polo and my authentic New York Yankees baseball cap. Connie was in a black halter and an outrageous sombrero; however, one’s eyes never ventured above the halter.

  Billy boy had gotten into a tank top (really!), Alex in a silk dress shirt with sleeves rolled to the elbows and opened to the waist (really!), and Archy in a sea-island lime shirt with a heliotrope ascot at the throat (splendid!).

  As stated, we were a handsome sextet.

  A dingy took us to our Hatteras (called the Bonnie Belle) as Alex explained that it takes great skill to maneuver a forty-foot luxury vessel from its berth to the open sea. For this reason it’s done for the less experienced renter who is shuttled to and fro, compliments of a marina pilot.