McNally's Bluff Read online

  I think the former owners of the villa on Ocean Boulevard would have been amazed to see what Amazin’ Matthew Hayes had done with it. The furniture, strictly rental, was a potpourri of this (early hotel) and that (late motel). The art, twelve-by-six four-color posters, depicted scenes from Hayes’s former carnival in all its gaudy splendor. A strong man, a tattooed lady named Lydia, a bearded lady, male Siamese twins joined at the hip (no doubt with Super Glue), Ferris wheels, ferocious tigers, parachute jumps, a two-headed dog, the fairway and, most conspicuous of all, Marlena Marvel in all her many guises.

  There were booths offering cotton candy, candied apples on a stick, soda pop, franks, burgers, beer from a keg and a moviola advertising French films. (Really!) There was an organ grinder with a monkey, a fortune-teller (Madame LaZanga) with a deck of tarot cards, a man who guessed your age (his was a thankless job with this crowd), several pinball machines and a guy in a bowler hat and arm braces (so help me!) running a three-card monte scam across a portable bridge table. There was a knife thrower asking for volunteers (ha!), a sword swallower and a lion tamer short on lions but long on tight breeches, blond locks and whip.

  There was also a platoon of boys and girls in the traditional black pants, white pleated shirts and black bow ties, passing around trays of crystal flutes (rented) filled with surprisingly good champagne.

  Lolly, in his trademark white suit, painted silk tie and panama hat, breezed by munching a candied apple and whispered, “My dear, it gives new meaning to the word gauche.”

  “Didn’t you advise him?” I whispered back.

  “I suggested the guest list, not the decor. Look, there’s Katie Mann with her new husband. Or is it Trish Manning’s new husband Katie’s got her mitts on? Oh, dear. Tata, dearheart.”

  “Before you ta-ta, Lol, will you tell me if that’s Carolyn Taylor’s beau?” I asked, discreetly nodding toward the couple in question.

  The widow Taylor is a looker in her forties. She wore her auburn hair in a rather mannish cut that was surprisingly sexy on her. In a miniskirt and black satin bolero blouse knotted above her toned bare midriff, there could be no doubt as to her gender.

  Her partner was at least twenty years younger and as good-looking as all the young men, usually from the Midwest, who come to our town not seeking fame (they go to N.Y. and L.A. for that) but fortune. This one came in natural blond.

  “That’s him,” Lolly said, pouting over his loss. “Billy Gilbert. There’s less to him than meets the eye, if you get my drift.” With that he took off to see just who Katie Mann was hitting on.

  Not far from Carolyn and Billy I spotted Laddy Taylor in the crowd but could not ascertain if he was with a date or on his own. He was far enough from his stepmother to prevent him from engaging her in fisticuffs, but the night was young.

  Judging from the din, the Smart Set appeared to be enjoying a night out. They were garbed in the suggested casual attire: shorts, sneakers, polo shirts, tees with naughty words in block letters and jeans worn low enough to reveal the brand of underwear beneath the denim—a fad I wish would go the way of long-playing records and telephones anchored to a wire.

  My near-six-foot frame looked splendid in a pair of trim madras slacks (I believe the relaxed look is for those who have something to hide) and a blue Ralph Lauren button-down. For contrast, I added a white-on-white ascot to the outfit and shod my size eleven hoofs in a pair of canvas docksiders—sans socks, naturellement. My underwear will be revealed on a need-to-know basis.

  “I guess you’re wondering why I gathered you all here tonight,” Hayes continued, to laughs, catcalls and applause. “Well, wonder no longer, for the moment of truth has arrived. You will be the first of whom I hope will be many to enter the maze of Le Maze and search for the goal.

  “To make your quest more interesting I am going to ask the ladies to pick a name out of this bonnet”—Hayes pointed to a woman’s straw bonnet resting on the rim of the platform next to a man’s top hat—“and the gentlemen to pick a name from this hat. Those with matching names will be partnered to search for the goal.”

  Feet shifted and necks craned to size up the possibilities.

  “By matching,” Hayes explained, “I mean a lady who picks, let’s say, Bonnie, will have to find the man who has selected Clyde.”

  This got a smattering of nervous laughs, giggles and moans.

  “Before we begin,” Hayes went on, still holding the room’s rapt attention, “I would like to introduce you all to the little woman whom I have loved, admired and looked up to since the day we met.”

  The silence that followed was embarrassing until one brave soul let out an insidious snicker. A moment later the entire room was rocking with laughter, led by Hayes himself who egged everyone on like a maestro sans baton. As the laughter subsided the lights began to dim, slowly, until the great room was dark and eerily still.

  A spotlight came on and moved to the foot of the curved marble stairway that descended gracefully to the great room and rose to the upper floor and a balcony where, decades ago, an orchestra once played to the waltzing couples below. The spotlight mounted the stairs, crossed to the balcony, hesitated, and then illuminated Venus de Milo in all her glory. The crowd gave a collective gasp before breaking into unbridled applause.

  Marlena Marvel, looking ten feet tall, had to be fifty-plus, but thanks to artfully applied theatrical makeup, appeared to be as ageless and armless as the ancient statue. Her skin was alabaster white and some device had been attached to her waist to make her appear both naked and modest. There was a demure smile on her lips and only her famous red hair broke from a detailed imitation of the original Venus. Forgive the analogy, but she stood as still as a statue with only her shiny black eyes reflecting a glimmer of life behind the facade. It was amazin’.

  The spotlight faded as the house lights came on. The audience, shaking their heads and exclaiming over the presentation, hardly had a chance to digest what they had seen before Hayes was beckoning to them to come forth and pick a partner for the search for the goal. “Marlena will join us as soon as she screws her arms back on.” He worked the crowd he now held firmly in the palm of his hand with all the finesse of a true carny pitch man.

  In the “His” and “Hers” queues I noticed Mr. and Mrs. Vance Tremaine. His family money was so old it died, forcing Vance to marry Penny Brightworth, whose money was so new it squeaked. Mr. Brightworth was a fast-food czar who catered lavishly to his only daughter, whom he called Bright Penny. Vance’s smart pals called the match dollar wise and penny foolish. Vance had an eye for young ladies and it was said he had cheated on Penny on their honeymoon. The more callous said he actually did it at his own wedding reception when he went missing from the bridal table for fifteen minutes before being spotted coming out of a utility closet with one of the waitresses.

  This has long bothered poor Penny. She once asked her friend and mentor, the formidable dowager Emily Fairhurst, “Can a man do it in fifteen minutes?” To which Emily responded, “My dear, he’s your husband, you tell me.”

  A group of Vance’s prep school buddies once pasted a bumper sticker to the rear of his Rolls that advised KEEP IT IN YOUR PANTS, VANCE.

  Also on line, much to Penny’s annoyance and Vance’s delight, was the beautiful and nubile Elizabeth “Fitz” Fitzwilliams. Vance had been after the young Fitz for years, to no avail, and Penny had gone to great lengths to keep the two as far apart as aeons in history. When the fates brought them together Penny kept a vigilant eye on both and, should nature call, Penny had been known to cajole Fitz into accompanying her to the loo, refusing to leave them alone for even five minutes, fearing Vance might attempt to break his record.

  If Fitz picked Bonnie and Vance picked Clyde, Penny would pick the knife thrower. Come to think of it, what would happen if Carolyn picked Bonnie and Laddy Taylor picked Clyde?

  With Fitz was Joe Gallo, a young man who used to be tight with my Georgia. Once a caddie at one of our more prestigious clubs, Joe, who asp
ired to join me fourth estate as a reporter, had got himself a position as news gatherer for our local television station, which is how he must have made Lolly’s list of notables. How Joe got Fitz I wouldn’t know.

  Also among us were a couple who appear on the channel Gallo labors for with their own morning show, unoriginally titled Breakfast with Mack and Marge. It’s a television version of the old radio shows that featured celebrated couples who were supposed to be at their breakfast table chatting about their wonderful evenings nightclubbing after the theater or rubbing shoulders at a society ball. These revelations greatly delighted their audience comprised primarily of the secretaries, wives, waitresses and telephone operators who would never see the inside of a nightclub, theater or ballroom.

  Mack and Marge work on a set at the studio in West Palm that features a divan for the couple and a few easy chairs for guests. A coffee table holds an urn, cups and saucers so Marge can play mother. After commenting on the weather and making a few public announcements they introduce their esteemed guest. Authors, gardeners, decorators, antiquers and politicians lead the list. My mother, who is a serious gardener, boasting six million varieties of begonias under her care, has been earmarked for an appearance but to date has managed to postpone her debut indefinitely. Mother is at an age where senior moments come without warning, but is cognizant enough of her malady not to tempt the fates on live TV. Amen.

  Most recently, Mack had hired a helicopter to fly him and a cameraman over the Amazin’ Maze of Matthew Hayes, giving viewers a bird’s-eye view of the phenomena. The clip was run on the evening news.

  People were now waving white adhesive labels in the air and shouting, “Rhett looking for Scarlett.”

  “Cathy looking for Heathcliff.”

  “Cleopatra looking for Caesar or Antony.”

  “Petruchio here, where’s Katharina?”

  I heard Vance shout, “Romeo,” and head straight for Fitz only to be waylaid by Juliet, a matron of sixty years and three chins. Penny beamed at the coupling.

  I picked Adam and went in search of Eve. I ran into Fitz who gave me a peck on the cheek and announced that she was Delilah. I told her we were in the same church but different pews. Joe gave me an affectionate hug (he’s of Italian descent, don’t-you-know) and lamented that he was Gatsby, not Samson.

  I approached Carolyn Taylor and said, “Adam.” She shook her head and answered, “Daisy.” I told her where to find Gatsby. Poor Billy had chosen Theseus and looked perplexed. I told him to seek out Phaedra. Clearly, the Greek classics are not these boys’ long suit.

  Someone tapped my shoulder and I turned to find my Eve in the person of Marge Macurdy. “This is serendipity,” Marge exclaimed at the sight of the ADAM label now plastered to the breast pocket of my shirt.

  “Serendipitist? Do you think we’ll be called upon to be fruitful and multiply?”

  “I certainly hope not, Mr. McNally. It didn’t work the first time so why beat a dead horse.”

  “Then I doubt if you’ll share even a candied apple with me.”

  She laughed and looked as pretty as any not-so-recent college grad had a right to look. Marge Macurdy had a head of chestnut curls and true brown eyes, and didn’t try to conceal the freckles the sun brings out, but rather flaunted them with a bright toothpaste smile and a lot of attitude. This was my kind of woman.

  “If we’re going to search for the goal as a team, I think you should call me Archy.”

  “I’ll call you anything you want if you’ll agree to appear on my show. I’m determined to snare a McNally, mother or son.”

  “A discreet inquirer on television would be an oxymoron.”

  “Don’t worry. I won’t ask you to drop your fig leaf,” Marge insisted.

  At that moment the air resonated with the trademark call of a man who taxies around the jungle on exceptionally strong vines, clad in the forerunner of the thong.

  “That’s Mack looking for Jane,” Marge said, wincing. “I begged him not to do it.”

  Here I will narrate events exactly as I would record them in my journal in the near future and relate them to the police before the night was over.

  As the guests found their mates, some with joy, others with polite fortitude, a young woman descended the marble staircase. She wore a black dress with white collar and cuffs, sensible shoes and a ridiculous frilly cap atop her hair which was pulled back from her face and knotted into a bun. So loudly did her manner and dress proclaim her profession that she could have come from a theatrical agency rather than a domestic employment agency. I was immediately reminded of the ungainly maid in a French farce.

  She made her way through the crowd, apologizing for the intrusion which no one seemed to notice, and went straight for the dais where Hayes stood. He got down on one knee and presented her with his ear. The message was obviously very brief, for just moments later Hayes was back on his feet and the maid was scurrying up the stairs.

  Once more begging our attention Hayes announced, “Marlena is afflicted with the petite headache and will join us for our buffet dinner after one lucky couple has gained the goal.”

  I whispered to Marge, “Given her size it’s amazin’ she can have a petite anything,” and got a playful poke in the ribs.

  “A final word,” Hayes boomed, “and we’ll be off. In the goal the winners will find two envelopes resting upon a sundial. Each envelope contains ten gift certificates, pour l’homme et la femme, redeemable at ten premier Worth Avenue shops.”

  This got a roar of approval and thunderous applause—and the hunt was on.

  I noticed that Lolly did not choose to partake in the contest, preferring to chat with the catering staff as they began to remove the carny attractions to make room for the buffet tables. On those rare occasions when Lolly does not clean his plate he has been known to take home the chef in lieu of a doggy bag.

  As we marched out of the house led by Tarzan (Mack Macurdy) and Jane (Penny Tremaine, of all people), the organ grinder serenaded us with “Three Blind Mice.” The entrance to the maze was outlined with a string of blinking colored lights and, like Noah’s crew, we entered the labyrinth two by two. The couple preceding Marge and me turned right, so we hung a left.

  The hedge (privet, I would guess) was some ten feet tall and about half as thick. The paths were cleverly outlined with tiny white lights running along the ground, much like the illuminated center aisle of a movie theater.

  I have already recounted the scene as we began our quest for the goal. After a half hour, the laughter began to turn to frustration and even anger. Marge and I arrived at our starting point three times when we thought we were on the opposite side of the maze.

  Tired of head-on collisions, many couples began to hunt in groups of four, six and eight, trotting along like the linked cars of a runaway train. It was remarkable, and frightening, how soon many became disoriented and lightheaded. One’s phobia can become alarmingly claustro in a maze.

  “With any luck we’ll come to the entrance again, and if we do I’m getting out,” Marge griped. Naturally, we never saw it after that.

  We did see poor Juliet who had lost her Romeo and was seeking him, not the goal. Other couples who did not think to join hands had been separated in the dark and now roamed in groups, clogging the pathways. The organ grinder was someplace within the maze still grinding out “Three Blind Mice” until it began grinding on our nerves, abetted by our host running up and down the aisles, laughing, teasing and goading us on.

  “The next time that shrimp cuts us off,” Marge threatened, “I’m going to step on him.”

  We had been in the maze over an hour, and just when I feared the hunt would turn into a stampede, Tarzan let out a formidable yodel which could mean only one thing.

  “Mack’s found it,” Marge cried. “He said he would, and he did.”

  Floodlights mounted on poles at the end of each passage came on and Hayes began collecting people like a little Pied Piper. In the light I noticed that the reason for Hay
es’s remarkable navigational skills was a map of the grid, which he consulted at every right angle.

  The goal was approximately ten by ten feet and only a lucky few of us, Marge and I included, could fit within its confines. Others crowded the entrance to peek in. Mack and Penny, all smiles, waved their envelopes at the crowd, as Hayes mounted the sundial to congratulate the winners and ask them, “Can you lead us back to the house?”

  “Ask him, he found it,” Penny said, indicating her partner.

  “Never,” Mack stated. “That would be like winning the lottery two consecutive times.”

  “Then allow me,” Hayes boasted, leaping off the garden ornament with the dexterity of one long used to plummeting from a perch. People cleared the entrance as Hayes, taking Mack and Penny by the hand like a child walking his parents, began the procession out of the maze and towards the house. The organ grinder belted out “Hail, Hail, The Gang’s All Here” and, like people finally freed from an elevator stuck between floors, voices were raised in thanksgiving to the rousing Gilbert and Sullivan refrain.

  “I told you I would do it,” Mack called to his wife.

  “He did,” Marge said in awe, “he really did.”

  “Have you seen Vance?” a concerned Penny called to us.

  “Everyone got all tangled up in the confusion,” Marge called back, “he could be anyplace.”

  Penny stumbled and was rescued by Mack.

  “Tangled in the crowd?” I chastised Marge. “You’re a bitch, Ms. Macurdy.”

  “Serves her right,” Marge answered. “Penny Tremaine needs Worth Avenue gift certificates like I need a hole in the head.”

  “It was your husband that got ’em for her,” I reminded her.

  “And for that I’m going to have a headache for the next ten years,” she vowed.

  Poor Mack. To the victor go the spoils—but not always.

  Tired and giddy, we staggered out of the maze and into the house where an enticing buffet had been set up with servers behind each course and portable bars scattered about the great room. The party atmosphere now restored, everyone headed for the booze, all talking of their trials and travails in the Amazin’ Maze of Matthew Hayes.