Boy Toy (10 page)

“It’s Saturday,” Neil reminded me. “He usually gets a later start at the gym.”

“We
all
should have gotten some extra sleep this morning,” I said. “After the excitement last night—the premiere
and
Jason’s death—I’m feeling sort of whipped. I’ll bet Thad won’t roll out of bed till one or two.” As an afterthought, I added to Barb, “Unless
you
sent him out on another early-morning mushroom hunt.”

“Nope,” she said matter-of-factly, puttering with something near the stove, “I got all the black trumpets I needed on Thursday. They dried all day yesterday, and today the culinary wizardry happens. Everything’s under control.”

Neil asked, “Just what is it you’re concocting?”

I didn’t want to know.

“Nothing fancy,” she said with uncharacteristic modesty, banging pans as she pulled them from a cabinet. “Sort of a party dip, a spread for crackers, bread…even bagels! You just simmer the black trumpets in a bit of milk, chop them up fine, then sauté them in butter. With a fork, you blend in chives and plenty of cream cheese till it’s gooey enough for spreading. Easy. And I
love
serving it. Guests can never figure out what’s in it, but lots of folks rave about it.”

Right, I thought. They’re the lucky ones. The others have perished.

I asked, “Are we all still sure that tonight’s party is a good idea?” It wasn’t so much the mushrooms as Jason’s death that fanned my doubts.

Barb turned to me, one hand to her hip, the other brandishing a wire whisk. “I thought we
decided.
I thought that was the point of our discussion last night till God only knows what hour.”

Neil raised both hands, a gentle gesture meant to appease both of us. “It’s a sticky question, yes, but we did talk it through, all three of us, and we concluded that it would be better
not
to cancel the party. Obviously, Jason’s death is shocking and unexpected. But the Players Guild isn’t canceling the run of
Teen Play
—‘the show must go on’—and contrary to that spirit, canceling the party would only appear grim. Besides, the party’s been planned for weeks, a lot of preparation has gone into it, and it’ll give the cast and crew an opportunity to meet outside the theater and talk through their feelings about the tragedy. It won’t be exactly the festive evening we had planned, but it will be good for the kids.” Neil looked from Barb’s face to mine. “Right?”

“Right,” I conceded. “Plus”—and this was really the strongest argument, I thought, for forging ahead with our plans—“the party will give Thad the opportunity to act as host, show off a bit, and curry favor with his friends.”

“Especially those ‘friends,’ ” added Barb, “who seem all too eager to believe that he was somehow involved with Jason’s death.” She’d pinpointed the core issue, and we fell silent for a moment, lamenting the circumstances that now cast Thad in such a dark light.

It had been a chilling experience backstage the previous night, watching the tide turn so quickly. One minute, Thad was a hero, the unflappable young actor who had just led his troupe to a triumphant opening; the next minute, when news broke of Jason’s death, he was seen by some as a scheming, murderous understudy. None of us considered for even an instant that Thad could have any connection to Jason’s death, and I had no reason to feel that the official investigation would ever focus on him. I did, however, harbor a nascent fear that Thad could suffer some serious emotional damage from the suspicions of his adolescent peers. It was important to resolve quickly the questions surrounding Jason’s death and, in doing so, to restore Thad’s good name before smoke implied fire.

“He seemed okay, didn’t he, when we talked before bed?” Though I’d been there, and though I’d answered this question to my own satisfaction—repeatedly—I still needed Neil’s reassurance.

“He was fine, Mark. If anything, he found the irony of the situation sort of
funny
.” Glancing at the clock, Neil added, “He isn’t losing any sleep over it.”

Though Neil’s words were meant to allay my fears, they succeeded in raising a new worry: Was Thad’s reaction to Jason’s demise too cavalier? Or was his nonchalance merely a cover for deeper feelings that he preferred not to air?

Barb opened the fridge, grabbed a diet cola, and joined us at the table. Popping the can, she said, “Look, guys. Thad’ll be fine. He’s at an impressionable age, but he’s a good kid, with two wonderful dads. He’ll pull through this, and so will you.” She tasted the soda, then added, “Jason’s autopsy will clear everything up, and the whole mess will be history. It could be over by nightfall.”

“Thanks, Barb,” Neil told her. “I hope you’re right.”

She snorted. “
Of course
I’m right.”

Watching her slug pop from the can, I offered, “Can I get you a glass?”

She dismissed my offer with a flip of her hand. “Just something to wash.”

I sighed—not a sigh of exasperation, but resolution. “Well, then, the party’s on. There’s plenty left to do, I’m sure. How can I help?”

Barb flipped her hand again. “I’m doing food. Neil’s doing flowers and all the froufrou stuff. You, Mark, just go to your office, print your papers, and solve your crimes.” She stood. “But leave your checkbook.”

“Now
there’s
a familiar request.”

She patted my shoulder. “That’s because you do it so well, hon.” And she left the room, stepping into her nearby quarters, adjacent to the kitchen.

“Speaking of crimes,” said Neil, reluctant to broach the topic, “what do you think?
Was
it a crime?” He rose from the table, got the coffeepot from the counter, and returned to fill our cups.

I sighed—not resolution this time, but frustration. “Good question. I
hope
it wasn’t a crime. I hope Jason simply succumbed to some serious, undiagnosed illness, its symptoms having masqueraded as a cold. Right now, I’d bet on natural causes. If there
was
foul play, there was no immediate evidence of it. Besides, I can’t imagine who’d have sufficient motive to kill Jason—he was conceited, yes, but hardly diabolical. In any event, this town doesn’t need another murder hanging over it.”

Pointedly, Neil added, “Neither does our quiet, happy household here on Prairie Street.” With a grin, he looked over the edge of his cup at me, then drank.

Sitting back, I drummed my fingers on the newspaper there on the table. Rhetorically, I asked, “What
would
it take to kill a kid, to slay him in his prime? If it
was
murder, it’s a particularly loathsome case.”

“The classic murder motives,” Neil rattled off, “are greed, passion, and revenge. Take your pick.”

“Don’t forget the motiveless murder—the kill for the thrill—the proverbial ‘perfect crime.’ ”

Neil shuddered. “Let’s not go there, okay? I would prefer to believe that we left the psychopaths and criminally insane back in the big, dirty metropolis.”

“Chicago’s not dirty,” I told him in a mock scolding tone.

“Correct. But you
know
what I mean: small-town Wisconsin hardly strikes me as a breeding ground for dementia.” Neil raised the mug in both hands to drink from it, but decided he’d had enough, setting it down.

Not quite joking, I suggested, “What about Mica Thrush?”

Not quite laughing, he conceded, “She
is
a weird one.”

“Those were the very words used to describe her by Deputy Jim Johnson, first to arrive at the scene last night.”

“Plus, she’s heavily into ‘gothic’ chic—black clothes, black lips and nails, the works. Do you suppose Mica has an unnatural fascination with death?”

“Last night she did. You should have seen her toying with the corpse—in the very room where her father was bemoaning the fact that she was now his sole heir.”

“Whew.” Neil leaned forward, resting on his elbows. “This might be the easiest murder case
we’ve
ever solved.” He laughed.

So did I. “Easy, Watson. As far as we know, there hasn’t even
been
a murder.”

A loud, shrill squawking noise interrupted us—it sounded like a stricken duck. Then Barb broke into rude guffaws, entering the kitchen with her clarinet mouthpiece poised before her lips. With her other hand, she carried a black leather case, a foot or so long, placing it on the table in front of us.

“That was lovely,” I said dryly. “I’m so glad you made the investment in a really
good
instrument.”

“Don’t get smart. It was worth every penny. I’m just a little rusty and could use a few lessons.” She snapped open the case, revealing the various sections of the clarinet, each nested in a velvety, contoured compartment. Unscrewing the metal ligature from the mouthpiece, she removed the reed, then tucked everything back in the case. “But”—her tone had suddenly turned ingratiating—“I could really use someplace to practice, someplace out of the way where I won’t bother people.”

“How ‘bout the cellar,” I suggested, managing to keep a straight face.

Neil cuffed me, telling Barb, “Just take one of the spare bedrooms. There’s plenty of space upstairs—glad you can make use of it.”

It was a good suggestion. The house had been designed for twice the number of its current inhabitants, and the second floor had five bedrooms. (On top of which, literally, was a third-floor great room, a wonderfully mysterious vaulted space that carried rich memories from my childhood.) The largest of the second-floor bedrooms, originally my uncle Edwin’s, was now occupied by Neil and me. My aunt Peggy’s lovely old room was set up as a permanent guestroom. Thad had one of the smaller rooms, which left two others. One of these was essentially a storeroom now; the other had served as a temporary workroom for Neil before he’d permanently moved his practice and opened the downtown office. Barb was welcome to either of these extra rooms.

“Thanks, guys,” she told us, using both hands to simultaneously tweak one of my cheeks and one of Neil’s—an annoying habit, though well meant. “I can’t wait to set up. I’ll practice in my spare time, promise, when no one’s around.”

“Fine,” I told her, “but don’t worry about bothering us—there’s nothing wrong with a little music in the house. When do we get to hear you play something?”

“Maybe never.” She splashed both hands in the air. “I’m in serious need of lessons,
remedial
lessons. Where to start?”

Neil asked, “Have you lined up a teacher yet?”

“Well,
no
”
—
hand to hip—“that’s the
point
!”

I got up from the table and crossed to the sink to rinse my cup. “This is a little out of my league, but you might want to talk to Whitney Greer.”

Barb turned to me with a blank expression. “Who’s she?”

“He,” I corrected her, “is manager of the Dumont Symphony Orchestra.”

Barb laughed. “No offense, guys, but he sounds like a hairdresser.”

“Ahhh,” said Neil, enlightened, “he’ll be at the party tonight. That’s a great suggestion, Mark. I’ll bet he could connect Barb with some fine clarinetists.”

“Hold on,” said Barb, “I’m still a few steps behind. This is a
theater
party tonight, right? How’d this Whitney guy get in the picture?”

Neil explained, “Both the Dumont Players Guild and the Dumont Symphony are amateur groups, but they need some professional help. Neither organization can afford a full-time manager, so they ‘share’ Whitney Greer, who serves as executive director of both groups. He has no artistic control, but he—”

“Yeah, yeah,” she interrupted, “I get it—the executive director is the paid help who minds the books and generally takes care of stuff. So this ‘Mr. Whitney’ is the orchestra guy too, huh? Maybe I
should
have a talk with him.” She paused, looking suddenly wary. “I forgot about the Dumont Symphony Orchestra—haven’t heard them in twenty years. Are they any
good
?”

“Very,” I assured her. “Oh, I know—community orchestras are often maligned, and they sometimes deserve it, but the Dumont Symphony is a notch or two above the norm. They’re over fifty years old, with a decent endowment, and they’ve done a valiant job of maintaining professional performance standards. Granted, their season consists of only five or six concerts, but they’re good ones. The community orchestra, like the community theater, adds an important dimension to our quality of life here, and—”

“Enough already,” she said, bumping me aside so she could load the dishwasher. “I got the picture. Sure, I’ll talk to Whitney. Thanks for the tip.”

When she had finished in the kitchen, she wiped her hands, retrieved the clarinet case, and headed toward the front hall. “I’ll be upstairs. Since Roxanne’s coming early, I’d better get her room ready.”

“Thanks,” we told her, and she was gone.

Neil got up from the table, slung an arm around my waist, and strolled me to the kitchen window, looking out at the backyard, green and still under the hot-white summer sky. Idly, he let his head drop against my shoulder. “It was good of her to change her plans today.” The topic had shifted to Roxanne Exner, our Chicago lawyer friend.

I turned my head to smell his hair. “I don’t think she
had
any plans, other than driving up to see Thad tonight. When I phoned her late last night and told her everything that had happened, she offered to get an early start today in order to be here by noon. We’ll meet with Doug Pierce at my office—unofficially, of course. He took a bit of convincing, but ultimately, Doug’s a friend as well as a cop.”

“Good thing.” Neil stood straight, a curious look crossing his face. “Where’s Carl this time? It seems we never see him anymore.” He was referring to Carl Creighton, an Illinois deputy attorney general. Before Carl had gotten involved in politics two years earlier, he’d been a senior partner at the prestigious Chicago law firm where Roxanne worked—and where she and Carl had met, becoming romantically involved. When Carl had left the practice, he’d promoted Roxanne, and the firm now bore the name Kendall Yoshihara Exner.

I answered Neil, “I assume Carl’s down in Springfield again. He’s been spending a lot of time there lately.”

“Hope it’s not a strain on their relationship.”

“Well…” I hesitated to continue. “She did mention that she needed to talk to us this weekend. Whatever it is, she was less than giddy about it.”