McNally's Bluff (27 page)

“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.”

I
S 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 zippy 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.

“When did you learn to navigate a big ship?” I asked Alex.

“All the men in my family have taken instructions in navigating boats of all sizes, and we’re licensed,” he said, proudly reiterating the achievements of the Gomez y Zapata clan as the dinghy plowed through the blue water. “I encourage all the boys and men of Cuban extraction here in Miami to do the same. We must be prepared for the invasion.”

Connie and Carolyn looked at Alex, who stood tall in the dinghy like Washington crossing the Delaware, with great admiration. He did resemble a swashbuckler of vintage Hollywood fare as the sea breeze blew his dark mane roguishly across his forehead while his eyes looked hopefully into the wild blue yonder.

We boarded on a lift that rose at the press of a button, depositing us at the ship’s rear (forecastle?) that was furnished with all the comforts of an upscale cocktail lounge. Blue-and-white pin-striped sofas, teak captains’ chairs, bar, television, stereo equipment and a telescope, slightly smaller than the Hubble, that did not contain a coin slot.

“Tally-ho,” Georgy exclaimed as she stepped onto the well-appointed deck.

“You’ve got the wrong sport,” I upbraided my fair lady. Turning to the others I apologized, “You can’t take a policewoman
no
place.”

They all laughed, none more heartily than Carolyn. It was remarkable how quickly she had established a rapport with Georgy, as I’m sure she had done when first meeting Alex and Connie. Carolyn Taylor,
nouveau
millionaire, had not forgotten her roots and reminded us of the fact, saying, “When I was a hostess on a luxury liner catering to the rich and infamous, I would order the
grenouille
every time it appeared on the menu. One evening the waiter asked me if I was going to have the frog legs as usual and I told him I never ate the awful things.”

More laughter, except for poor Billy who didn’t get it.

Alex and Billy had toted hampers they now stored in a refrigerator behind the bar. “Sandwiches and salads for lunch,” Carolyn announced, “from Sandy James, don’t-you-know. The bar is fully stocked with beer and booze and even champagne if you can take the bubbly before sunset. It also comes with a real live captain and a wine steward, whom I imagine is also alive, but for our purposes they’re not necessary.”

And just what were our purposes? I thought, fearing we might be the forerunners of Alex’s Spanish Armada. We all went to the bridge and gathered around Alex who, with an assist from Billy, turned on the engines and we were off—where? Why?

A huge compass under glass told me we were headed south which, I believe, would put us on a collision course with Cuba. “How far are we from Havana?” I asked our captain in the silk shirt.

“Two hundred miles as the crow flies,” he answered.

“How close can we get before they start shooting?”

“Relax,” Billy advised. “We go about five miles and turn off the engines.”

“Then what do we do?”

“Fish,” Billy said, winking at Alex before they burst into laughter. I did not like this.

Carolyn hustled the girls back to the lounge to start lunch and as soon as they were gone Alex, his eyes on the endless expanse of sea and his hands on the huge wheel, said, “When we reach our mark I can let it drift while we have a drink and lunch. Then I’ll tell you our mission.”

“Fair enough,” I acquiesced, but what else could I do? Swim to shore?

Leaving Billy and Alex to count miles, I joined the ladies, taking a comfy chair and ordering a Campari and soda. Connie played bartender, Carolyn fussed with plates and silverware, Georgy, sitting beside me, took a deep breath and exhaled, “It’s so beautiful I want to cry.”

“Go right ahead,” Carolyn called, “I did my first night on that liner. There was a full moon as I recall.”

“It makes me think of the night we fled Cuba, not knowing if we would make it to Miami,” Connie reminisced.

It made me think of werewolves.

Connie served my Campari in a tall tumbler, its rim decorated with a slice of lime. “To go with your shirt,” she remarked maliciously, and began singing, in Spanish, “The day that I left my home for the rolling sea, I said, Mother, dear, O pray to thy God for me...”

“Can you get us some proper music on that stereo?” I requested of our hostess.

Carolyn, emerging from behind the bar with a tray holding three drinks, said with a wry smile, “Alex told me you two were old friends.”

“They go back ages,” Georgy chimed in, getting a scowl from our homegrown Carmen Miranda.

Carolyn cheerfully served the drinks, “Bloody Marys, ladies, with a spicy blend of tomato and celery sticks for swizzle sticks. Original, no?”

“No,” we replied in unison.

Settling down with our drinks we silently took in our briny, and very privileged, milieu. The Miami skyline was slowing sinking into the ocean as seaworthy crafts of all genres drifted in our wake. The sparkling water accommodated water-skiers, scuba divers and fishermen. Sailboats, leaning precariously into the wind, performed their aquatic ballet with a chorus line of catamarans, to the annoyance of the scullers. Saturday traffic, I was amazed to learn, is not confined to the highways and byways of this great nation.