McNally's Bluff Read Free Page A

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