Boy Toy (15 page)

Barb seemed at a loss to grasp their words. “You mean you’re…
married
?”

Neil patted her back. “Sorry, Barb. Better luck next time.”

We all laughed, and Barb self-effacingly joined in, but I got the impression she was genuinely flummoxed by this encounter—within a few short minutes, she’d both found and “lost” Frank. I, in turn, was intrigued by her reaction. When she had come to work at the house, she told me she’d sworn off men for a while. Was she now reconsidering that stance? Wherever her head was at, I had to admit, Frank would be a prize.

“Oh, Barb,” said Neil brightly, “there’s someone I want you to meet.” Was he trying to set her up already—some sort of consolation prize?

Barb gave him a questioning stare.

“Look who’s here.” Neil waved over to us a man who had just entered the kitchen for a drink. I didn’t know him, but his face was familiar. Neil said, “This is Whitney Greer, executive director of both the Players Guild and the Dumont Symphony.” Of course—his photo was in the
Register
from time to time, and his mug smiled from page two of every program book.

Neil made the complete round of introductions. Frank already knew Whitney from his theater work, but neither Barb nor I had met him. Cynthia spoke as if she knew him, but I think she was faking it, feeling that she
should
know him.

Barb’s mood instantly brightened as her focus shifted from Frank to her clarinet. “I’m so very pleased to meet you, Mr. Greer,” she told him, her manner uncharacteristically deferential. “If you have a few moments, there’s something I’d like to discuss with you.”

Before Greer could respond, Neil said, “Actually, there’s something
we
need to discuss,” referring to the Geldens, me, and himself. I assumed he was steering us toward the coroner’s mushroom theory. “Maybe we could all freshen our drinks and try to find someplace quiet.”

“My den,” I suggested.

“Delightful,” agreed Cynthia.

So while Barb cornered Whitney Greer to quiz him about the prospects of remedial clarinet lessons, I poured a glass of good chardonnay for Cynthia, topped off the rest of our drinks, and led our group out of the kitchen, into the noisy hall.

Heading toward the front of the house, we encountered Thad with a clump of other kids that included Tommy Morales.

“That really sucks,” said one of them, his tone commiserative.

“
Tell
me,” said Tommy. “It’s like fate or whatever. I’d do
anything
to make theater ‘happen’ for me—I figure it’s the surest way out of here. Now this.”

“What would it cost to fix?” asked Thad.

“Way more than I’ve got,” said Tommy. “I planned on working this summer, but I wanted to be in the play too. I couldn’t do both, so I had to give up the job.”

As we stopped to listen, Frank asked, “What’s wrong?”

Hangdog, Tommy looked up to tell us, “My car. It’s just a beater, but it gets me around—at least it
did.
Today the transmission went. Guess I’m scr—” He rephrased, “Guess I’m skunked.”

Frank smiled. “Tell you what. Your place isn’t far out of my way. Why don’t I just swing by and give you a lift for the rest of the run?”

“
Would
you?” asked Tommy, looking much relieved. “That would be great. Thanks, Mr. Gelden.”

“Then I’ll pick you up at twelve-thirty tomorrow for the matinee. Do you need a ride home tonight?”

“It’s covered, thanks. But tomorrow would be great. Really—I appreciate it.”

As we four adults continued toward the den, I told Frank, “You struck me as a hell of a nice guy last Wednesday when we met, and you just proved I was right.”

He shook his head, looking a bit bashful, which made him all the more endearing. “With kids that age,” he said, “wheels are
everything.
Tommy comes from a large family of modest means—his wreck of a car won’t be in working order soon. So he’s stuck bumming rides, considered particularly humiliating among his peers. He doesn’t need such a pointless source of anxiety during the play. Why
wouldn’t
I help out?”

Cynthia tugged his earlobe, telling us, “God, I
love
this guy.”

Frank blushed. Pretending not to notice, I slung an arm around Neil’s waist and opened the door to the den.

My uncle Edwin’s den, now my own domain, was intentionally kept off-limits to the party that night. Located in a front corner of the house, just off the entry hall, the room would have been a logical target for revelers in search of somewhere to talk and eat, away from the crowd, but this was
my
space, and I didn’t want it invaded by strangers. The huge old mahogany partners desk, flanked by matching leather chairs, was laden with paperwork I’d left in progress, as well as my calendar, assorted sentimental curios, and a few framed pictures—personal stuff—it was nobody else’s business. So I’d left the room closed, dark, and unwelcoming. Our guests got the message, and my turf had not been violated.

Entering with Neil and the Geldens, switching on the lights, I was struck again by the room’s uncommon beauty, a handsome quality, distinctly masculine. Even the air felt good—while the rest of the house had begun to warm up with the party, my sequestered bailiwick felt cool and fresh.

“Oh,
my
,” said Cynthia as she stepped inside, “what a charming little retreat.”

In truth, it wasn’t all that little. The oversize desk occupied only a corner of the room. The remainder of the space, on the opposite side of the door, was used as a sitting area with a comfortable chesterfield suite of tufted-leather furniture facing a fireplace. The unique mantel and surround were architect-designed in the same Prairie School style as the house. Though the hearth was now screened and dark for the summer months, it provided an inviting focal point that seemed to stimulate conversation and camaraderie. Instinctively, the four of us settled around the cocktail table, facing an imaginary fire.

“Well,” said Frank, “at long last—we can all get to know each other.”

Neil had mentioned earlier that the Geldens seemed eager to make our acquaintance, couple to couple, and now I felt glad to know them—we fell easily in sync, with a promising rapport. These optimistic thoughts were tainted, though, by the troubling circumstances that had prompted Neil and me to pull the Geldens aside that night.

When I sensed a lull in our small talk, I got to the point, shifting from banter to business. With a soft laugh I observed, “There’s a certain topic we seem to be talking
around
tonight.”

Frank nodded, tracing a finger around the rim of his glass. “Jason’s death has been here in the room with us all along—like a pink elephant lolling on your desk.”

“And everyone was reluctant to mention it,” said Neil, setting his drink aside.

Cynthia sipped her wine, then set her glass on the table near Neil’s. “I’m aware of the general situation, of course, but I’m not as close to it as any of you are. Forgive me if this question seems insensitive, but am I correct that the circumstances have led some to see Thad in a bad light?”

Neil assured her, “The question isn’t at all insensitive, Cynthia. We’re beyond the point of denial—yes, there are some who suspect Thad of involvement in Jason’s death.” He summarized the “boy toy” incident at dress rehearsal, ending with Thad’s paraphrased threat from the script. “Now some people are wondering if Thad made good on his threat.”

“But that’s ridiculous,” said Frank. “That’s just
kids
talking. I heard the threat, and Jason clearly provoked it. This is mere circumstance.”

I cleared my throat. “Unfortunately, the circumstances got stickier this afternoon.” Frank and Cynthia exchanged an apprehensive glance. “Sheriff Pierce and I spoke to the coroner, who’d just completed his initial examination of the Thrush boy.”

Though I did not intend to tantalize my listeners with this narrative, Frank had inched to the edge of his seat. “And…?”

I paused. “And we may need your help.”

Frank and Cynthia again exchanged a glance, but now they were simply confused. Frank turned to me, saying, “Of
course
, Mark, I’d do anything to help Thad. But how?”

I told the Geldens what I’d learned: “Dr. Formhals has so far determined that Jason died of respiratory failure, which in turn was caused by something that severely complicated the symptoms of his cold. Formhals stressed that this is speculative, and it does not necessarily point to foul play, but he called it his ‘best theory.’ He thinks that Jason may have died from mushroom poisoning.”

“Good Lord,” said Cynthia, reflexively raising a hand to her throat.

Though visibly shaken, Frank tried to remain analytical. “Do you mean that the mushrooms themselves were lethal, or did they have a deadly effect because of Jason’s cold?”

“The latter, I think, but I’m not sure. Formhals himself was just starting to piece this together. Jason’s stomach contents still need to be analyzed, and then they’ll run tests for specific toxins. It could take a while.”

“And meanwhile,” said Frank, nodding his understanding, “suspicion could continue to mount against Thad.”

Neil answered, “Exactly. We hardly need to tell
you
that Thad’s knowledge of mushrooms is fairly impressive.”

“Very impressive,” Frank corrected him. “He’s an astute student and an avid enthusiast. That would normally be a high compliment, but under the circumstances…”

“Which is why we’re turning to you, Frank,” I told him. “Hell, I don’t know a jot about mycology, but you’re an expert, and to be perfectly honest, we’re desperate to stay one step ahead of the coroner—and the sheriff.”

“Say no more,” said Frank with a smile, raising his hands in a comforting gesture as he sat back in his chair. “As you can well imagine, you’ve piqued my interest—not only at a professional level, but at a very personal level. Cynthia and I are proud to count you and Neil as
friends.
If I can, I’d like to help you trash the coroner’s theory and put Thad in the clear.” Frowning, he added, “Come to think of it, this tends to cast suspicion on just about anyone in Fungus Amongus.”

I had to laugh. “Sorry to say it, but I’ve always felt that mushrooming has some decidedly creepy overtones.”

Neil smirked, shushing me, then turned to Frank. “Seriously, we appreciate your offer to help. It goes without saying that Mark and I are also proud to count you and Cynthia as friends.”

Cynthia clutched Neil’s forearm. “And at the moment, you and Mark are ‘friends in need.’ Don’t worry. Soon, we’ll all look back and laugh at these developments.”

Daring to feel a bit of optimism, I leaned forward in my chair, asking Frank, “Any initial reaction to the coroner’s theory?”

“There are at least five thousand species of mushrooms growing in the United States. Of these, perhaps a hundred are poisonous, causing reactions that range from mere indigestion to death. Because the symptoms of mushroom poisoning can be easily confused with those of other illnesses, we don’t really know how many Americans die from mushrooms each year, but the number is probably in the range of a hundred to a thousand. Most victims are amateur hunters who should have spent more time studying their field guides.”

I asked, “What about instances of actual murder by mushroom poisoning?”

Frank shook his head. “Very rare. A would-be killer could never predict with certainty the effect of particular mushrooms on an intended victim. Poisonous mushrooms—‘toadstools’—would make a chancy murder weapon at best.”

Neil reached for the cocktail he’d set aside and drank a goodly slug. He told us, “I feel better already.”

Frank raised a hand in mild admonition. “Even though mushroom poisoning strikes me as unlikely, the coroner has called it his ‘best theory.’ He’s based that on
something
, some particular results of his examination that we simply aren’t privy to. Anyway”—he grinned—“I could use a refresher in Toadstool Pathology 101, so let me do a bit of research and pin down some facts. It may take me a day or two, but once I’m up to speed, let’s regroup and figure out what’s next.”

On instinct, the four of us lifted our drinks and exchanged a silent toast.

“I know,” said Cynthia, fingering the stem of her wineglass, “let’s do dinner at the house. We’ve been
dying
to get together with you two, and now we have the perfect excuse to entertain.”

“Not that we need an ‘excuse,’ ” Frank added.

“Actually,” Neil told Cynthia, “the timing works out perfectly. You and I ought to go over the final plans for your home office. I’m ready when you are.”

Frank asked her, “What’s your schedule next week, hon?”

“Same as last week—Tuesday through Friday, I’ll be in Green Bay. So Monday evening would be good.” She asked Frank, “Is two days enough time for your toadstool refresher?”

He assured us, “I work best with a deadline.”

“Mark?” Neil asked. “Shall we call it a date?”

I smiled. “It’s a date.”

W
HEN NEIL AWOKE THE
next morning and suggested that we go for a run together, I didn’t think twice about answering, “Sure, great idea.” Either the heat was letting up, or I was getting used to it. Though dawn was already an hour past, it was Sunday, so the house was still quiet when we left through the front door and took off at a trot down Prairie Street.

Neil laughed, his voice blending with the chatter of birds and with the sound of our shoes on the pavement. He turned to me and said, “Even Barb was still in bed.”

“How could you tell?”

“She hadn’t made coffee—at least I couldn’t smell it. Deductive reasoning, pal.”

“Actually, I believe that’s inductive.”

“Oh.” He was normally a stickler for such distinctions, but it seemed he couldn’t care less about this one. I interpreted his nonchalance as a sign that he’d slept well, that he’d put aside, at least for now, the vexing developments of last week.

“Barb should sleep all day,” I said. “She really knocked herself out last night—I don’t know
when
she finished cleaning up.”

“I told her we’d all pitch in if she’d leave it till morning. Not her style, I guess.”