Boy Toy (21 page)

“Ten million.”

“
There’s
a motive if you need one.” Using a long-handled horsehair brush, he whisked eraser grit from a large floor plan on his drafting table.

“The charming Mica stood to gain as well,” I reminded him. “Daddy’s sick, and she’s now the sole heir. Plus, she’s
weird
, Neil. She literally lurked.”

Neil laughed. “ ‘Lurked’?”

“I swear to God—peeking from behind curtains, sneaking down the stairs, eavesdropping around corners—she
lurked.
You’d expect no less from someone who’d vivisected their neighbor’s cat.”

“What?”

I filled Neil in. “Then, when Pierce and I left, Mica skittered out to the car with us and dropped a bombshell.” I grinned, hoping to tantalize Neil, knowing he’d enjoy the next part.

He set a few drafting tools aside. “Well…?”

“Get this: Mica told us that her brother, Jason, didn’t date. I found this unlikely because I’d seen a well-depleted stock of condoms in his bathroom. Then she told us that Jason preferred boys.”

“No way.”

“She said she was certain. I just don’t know whether to believe her.”

“Yow—that
would
be a whole new angle.”

“But that’s not the half of it. The plot, as they say, thickens. Not only was Jason gay, according to Mica, but he’d also been having an extended affair with someone older, and they were recently on the outs.”

“Another possible motive.”

“Possible,” I agreed. “And here’s the most enticing part: Mica didn’t exactly say it, but she strongly implied that the other man was none other than”—I paused for effect—“Denny Diggins.”

Neil’s jaw dropped. “Good God. It sounds crazy, but it sort of fits. I’ve never been sure, but I
assume
Denny is gay—”

“Who wouldn’t?”

“—and he obviously likes being around kids, or he wouldn’t have written and directed
Teen Play.
What’s more, he cast Jason as the opening-night lead. I admit, the whole setup is conceivable.”

I stood. “But why—and how—would Denny kill Jason on Friday night? We don’t even know yet if Jason
was
killed, but if he was, and if Denny was somehow motivated to do it, why would he threaten the success of his own play by killing off the star on opening night? That doesn’t fit. Does it?”

Neil thought, shook his head. “No. Unless we don’t have the whole picture.”

“That’s a safe bet.” I laughed. “This whole new angle is based on nothing more than the unsubstantiated claim of Mica Thrush. She’s as wacky as they come, not what I’d call a dependable source in the first place. Second, she herself stood to gain from her brother’s death, and frankly, that whole family is so dysfunctional, I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if either Mica
or
Burton murdered the kid.”

“Then where did Mica come up with the Denny Diggins angle? Did she pull it out of thin air?”

I snapped my fingers. “That’s exactly what she did. Minutes earlier, up in Jason’s bedroom, Pierce had asked her about the phone system there, mentioning that Denny had repeatedly tried calling Jason on Friday, leaving several voice messages. That could easily have inspired her to spin the story about a relationship with Denny. Thanks for the insight, Neil.”

“My pleasure,” he said, removing masking tape from the corners of the plan on his drafting table. He paused. “Still, it’s an intriguing notion: Jason Thrush was gay. It’s all the more intriguing to think that he was into older men.” Neil twitched his brows. “Talk about ironic.”

I gave him a quizzical look.

He explained, “The rivalry between Jason and Thad first became apparent to us at dress rehearsal, when Jason accused Thad of being our boy toy. It would be the height of irony if Jason, the accuser himself, was in fact the boy toy.”

“Gee.” I nodded. “I hadn’t thought of that. If Mica’s story is true, Jason’s put-down of Thad was not only unconscionable, but supremely hypocritical—accusing someone else of being what he hated in himself.”

“Heavy, man.” Neil’s tone was facetious. Then he paused, getting serious. “You know, from the moment it happened, Jason’s ‘boy toy’ comment struck me as sort of…
off
somehow.”

I nodded slowly, sensing Neil’s logic.

He continued, “Think about it: Would a straight guy, supposedly a young, homophobic het jock, use a term like
boy toy
? It’s so…Madonna. The expression just strikes me as intrinsically gay, like
fag hag.
Where would Jason pick up such argot—if not from the inside?”

Neil had raised an intriguing point. Perhaps I was being too hasty in my eagerness to dismiss Mica’s claim that her brother was gay. Recalling all those framed photos of Jason palling and horsing with his Abercrombie crowd, it was easy to imagine what was making him smile.

“Yeah,” I admitted, “Doug and I had better take another look at this. We simply weren’t willing to take Mica at her word. But who knows?”

“There,” said Neil, adding the plan he’d just finished to a stack of other blueprints, preparing to roll them up. “Ready for lunch?”

“Not so fast.” I grinned. “What are you working on?”

With hand on hip, he told me, “It’s about time—I thought you’d never ask.”

Stepping behind him, I said, “Show me something beautiful, kiddo.”

“The conference table is better for spreading things out.” Bundling the plans under an arm, he led me to the front of his office, where four chairs surrounded a generously large table. Light from one of the display windows filled the whole area.

Neil fanned out the plans, making sure he had them in the correct order. The sheets measured perhaps two feet by three, not actually blueprints, as in the old days of ammonia-stenched diazotypes, but black-line prints, essentially large photocopies of his original drawings. Neil was also adept at computer drafting, which could spit out prints from a plotter, but he preferred traditional methods for residential work. “These are my plans for the addition to the Geldens’ country home.”

“I should have guessed. Big presentation tonight at dinner?”

“No harm in mixing a bit of business with pleasure.” Then he walked me through the plans.

The first sheet was a site plan showing the boundaries of the entire property and the relationship of the existing house to the new construction, the road, and the neighbors. “Wow”—I said—“I had no idea the place was so rambling—what I’d call an ‘estate.’ ”

Neil nodded. “It’s five acres. Wooded, secluded, a lovely setting.” With a grin, he told me, “The house ain’t bad, either.” He flipped the page, revealing a closer view of the house plan in relation to the new building. The new part was shown in far greater detail, but even the existing house showed all of its rooms—it was impressively sprawling. “It’s a solid four thousand square feet, all on one floor. Lots of fieldstone, timbers, and other natural materials. Reminds me of a lodge in New Hampshire. It was built some thirty years ago, and Cynthia bought it from the original owners around the time she married Frank.”

“Frank married well,” I observed dryly. “Did you draw elevations?”

“Not of the main house, but I did a nice perspective rendering of the new building, shown in relation to the existing house. Here we go.” He slid a drawing out from the bottom of the pile.

“It’s
gorgeous,
Neil. Suitable for framing.”

He leaned next to me and hugged my waist. “Many clients
do
frame the renderings. I admit, this is one of my better ones.”

The drawing instantly conveyed his entire aesthetic concept for the new quarters. Since he had described the project as a “home office” for Cynthia, I had envisioned something rather meager in scale—like a weatherproofed hut in the backyard. But this was lavish and whimsical, truly a “design statement,” as Neil might call it. For starters, the new building was two stories high, capped by a sort of lookout porch. It reminded me of a huge gazebo; on the drawing, Neil had labeled it
PAVILION.
The charming old main house lolled in the background, separated from the new pavilion by a boardwalk that cut through a garden and crossed an expanse of turf. The new structure rose from a cluster of trees as if it had grown there; the building materials, the same used for the main house, gave the pavilion the look of a natural addition to the landscape. In terms of mood, an element of fantasy permeated the entire design.

“Has she seen it yet?”

“Just sketches. But she loved the idea.”

“God, I don’t blame her.” I shook my head. “That’s a lot of office though.”

Neil jabbed me with his elbow. “It’s not
all
office. As long as we were at it, we added a few nice…touches.” He flipped back to the floor plans.

Cynthia’s work space was on the second floor of the new building. It had its own bathroom, a galley kitchen, and a large sitting room as well. An open stairwell rose from the ground level and went up to the roof terrace. I noticed that the entire ground floor of the pavilion was simply labeled
SPA
. A smaller area of the existing house was also labeled
SPA
. I tapped the word on the drawing. “What’s that?”

“Their adult playroom.” He smiled. “The existing house has a nicely equipped spa—sauna, whirlpool, workout area. Cynthia calls it their ‘own private world.’ It’s not just for show; they actually use it and enjoy it together. So the new building will include a larger spa, designed from the ground up, all state-of-the-art.”

My brows arched. “Sounds wonderfully sybaritic.”

“It will be. Cynthia wants indoor
and
outdoor splash pools, total privacy for nude sunbathing, even a ‘meditation garden.’ ” He pointed out these features on the plan. “She has the wish list; I make it happen.” He riffled through the remaining plans—working drawings and details of cabinets, trim, plumbing, wiring, even custom-designed tile patterns.

Looking at all this, I was amazed anew at Neil’s talents. “Cynthia is one lucky woman. Clearly, she’s found the right man.”

He stepped back, asking skeptically, “Are you referring to me—or Frank?”

I laughed. “You, of course. But Frank’s not bad either.”

Satisfied with my response, he nodded while rolling the plans into a bundle, securing them with fat rubber bands.

“Thanks for the preview. I’ve been looking forward to this evening, but I had no idea their place was so posh. Having seen it on paper, now I’m
really
eager to pay a little visit and see the place for myself.”

“Our purpose,” Neil reminded me, “is to discuss some of the finer points of mushroom poisoning.”

“Yes”—I conceded—“a dinner with a purpose.”

“First things first though. Are you ready for lunch?”

“Starved.”

A few minutes later, we had left Neil’s office and walked the remaining block to First Avenue Grill. Passing the windows of the restaurant on our way to the front door, I could see through the reflections in the glass that the crowd within was on the thin side. “Why is that?” I wondered aloud. “Restaurants never seem to do very well on Mondays.”

Neil shrugged. “Maybe it’s just the decent weather today. People would rather be outdoors.”

“But they still have to
eat.
What do they do—go to the park and forage for nuts?”

He laughed, swinging the door open for me.

Entering the Grill together, we were greeted at once by Nancy Sanderson. “Mr. Manning, Mr. Waite, so nice to see you. Your table’s ready, of course.”

While leading us across the room, she paused to tell us, “By the way, congratulations on your nephew Thad’s performance with the Dumont Players this past weekend. Do extend my best wishes to him.” She smiled brightly—an effusive expression not typically allowed by her polite, restrained manner.

I thanked her, adding, “I thought I saw you in the lobby on Saturday night.”

“I was there,” she affirmed, nodding. “And I couldn’t have been more impressed. Thad is such a
talented
young man.”

“Yes, he is,” I agreed, though I couldn’t imagine how she had come to that conclusion on the basis of Saturday’s performance—Thad wasn’t running on all eight cylinders that night.

Neil thanked her on Thad’s behalf.

“I’m sure you’re very, very proud of him.” She beamed.

“We are,” we told her.

But I was doubly confused. Not only did I find her praise of Saturday’s performance unwarranted (was she just being polite?), but even more perplexing was her uncharacteristic mood—I had never seen her so upbeat and chipper. What’s more, it seemed odd that she made no mention of Jason Thrush’s untimely death, and I clearly recalled overhearing her sour comment on that topic Saturday night: “What goes around, comes around.” It almost gave the impression that she was glad Jason was dead.

As I pondered this unlikely possibility, Nancy took us to our table, where Neil and I sat. Settling in, unfurling my napkin, I noticed the front door open. Sheriff Pierce walked in with Dr. Formhals, the county coroner. Directing Neil’s attention to the door with a nod, I asked him, “Do you mind if they join us? Might be informative. Sorry to intrude on ‘our’ time though.”

With a wink, he reminded me, “We see
plenty
of each other. Ask them over.”

Nancy told us, “I’d be happy to extend your invitation.” With a bob of her head—not quite a bow—she slipped away to greet the new arrivals.

Pierce listened, then looked in our direction with a wave and a smile. He and Formhals began moving toward our table. Nancy followed with the extra menus.

We stood, greeting them, and the four of us were soon clustered around the linen-draped table. Neil and I sat across from each other, as before, with Pierce and Formhals now between us. Nancy excused herself to seat another group of patrons who’d just arrived.

Formhals laughed his low, soft chuckle. “It seems we’ve been running into each other with uncanny regularity, Mark. It’s a pleasure, of course.”

With a weak grin, I said, “I wish I could say the same, Vernon.” I tried to explain, “Circumstances…”

He laughed heartily now. “I
know
, Mark, I know—the coroner isn’t most people’s idea of ‘good company.’ ” He sat back, smiling.