Boy Toy (31 page)

“What’s so funny?”

I blinked. The ceiling reflected the soft glow of early daylight. Neil’s whisper had cut through my dream.

“You were laughing in your sleep,” he told me through his own quiet laugh.

I rolled my head on the pillow to look at him. “Morning, gorgeous. Sorry I woke you.”

He propped himself on one elbow. “You sounded happy.”

“Ecstatic. I was reliving one of the best nights of my life.”

He grinned. “Was I there?”

“Uh-huh.”

“What was I doing?”

I tossed back the sheet to give him a gander.
“That.”

He stretched to look at the clock radio over my shoulder. “Officially, we don’t wake up for another twenty minutes.”

I rolled toward him and burrowed into him. “Twenty minutes ought to do it.”

“In a pinch.”

And together, we made a bit of spontaneous, free-form magic.

Once again, mushrooms danced.

Once again, Neil and I were a few minutes late for breakfast, arriving in the kitchen together, still enjoying some afterglow.

Once again, Pierce had already arrived and was arranging things on the table in our absence. Barb puttered at the sink.

“Morning,” I announced brightly, hanging my sport coat on the back of my usual chair.

“Yeah,” said Barb—she was running water, perhaps scrubbing vegetables.

“
Well
now,” said Pierce, looking up from the bagged kringle he was ripping open. “Did you guys have another late night?”

“No,” Neil answered innocently, “just a little slow this morning.” As he sat at the table, he caught my eye, and we both grinned, telegraphing the cause of our tardiness.

Pierce shook his head, suppressing a laugh. “You guys…”

Moving to the counter to get the coffeepot, I glanced over to the sink. Barb was indeed cleaning vegetables—a pile of them—potatoes and green beans, plus the raw beginnings of an extravagant salad. This struck me as an odd sort of kitchen duty for seven-something in the morning. With a laugh, I asked, “What’s all that?”

“Just working ahead,” she told me without looking at me. “You’ve got a dinner guest tomorrow night.”

I shrugged. “I appreciate the effort, Barb, but don’t knock yourself out. It’s just a casual family meal, plus one.”

She nodded. “That’s what your note said. Who is it, if I might ask?”

I’d been rushed yesterday morning, and my note, I realized, lacked detail. “Sorry, I wasn’t trying to be mysterious. Frank Gelden is coming over.”

She shut off the water and turned to me. “Frank?”

“Yes, Frank.” I crossed to the table and began pouring coffee. Over my shoulder, I asked, “Why, do you mind?”

“No, of course not.” She primped her hair, tucked in her polo shirt—you’d have thought Frank was arriving in thirty-six seconds, not thirty-six hours. “Where’s wifey-poo?”

Neil reminded Barb, “Her name’s
Cynthia.
She often works in Green Bay during the middle of the week. Frank’s Thursday was open, so we asked him over.”

I sat down next to Pierce, telling him, “The invitation’s still open, Doug, if you’d like to join us.”

He shook his head. “Thanks, but I can’t. That committee meeting—public safety. It starts early and always runs late.”

Barb said, “Then come for dessert. We’ll save you a spot.” This implied, of course, that she’d be dining with us that night, as was her habit. She went to the refrigerator, popped a can of diet cola, and joined us at the breakfast table.

“We’ll see.” Pierce’s reticent tone signaled other things—more important things—on his mind. That morning’s
Register
lay there on the table, folded to my page-one article about the coroner’s report.

I said what we were all thinking: “By now, the whole town knows that Jason was actually murdered. Before, we were working with theories, but now, we’re faced with the elusive realities of a vexing crime. The pressure’s on.”

“Tell me,” said Pierce. “Harley Kaiser, our esteemed district attorney, was already feeling pressure from Burton Thrush to push the coroner for his report. Now Kaiser is pressuring
me
for an arrest—he phoned me at home last night. Jeez, the official murder investigation is less than a day old.” Pierce slurped some coffee, pushing away his Danish, having apparently lost taste for it.

Neil asked him, “Where do you start?”

“Back at the Thrush residence. When in doubt, start with the family. Both Burton and Mica had the most to gain from Jason’s death. They’re also the two people who can give us the most intimate background on the victim, if they’re willing. All of our other leads are highly speculative at this point.” Pierce turned to me. “But that’s where
you
could do some effective digging, Mark.”

“I’ll be at it all day.” Reaching behind me to the jacket I’d hung on my chair, I fished my notebook from a pocket, opened it, and reviewed my plans aloud. “First thing this morning, Denny Diggins is coming down to the office for that ‘features interview’ with Glee. Depending on what he says, I may need to explore other leads. In any event, I want to meet with Dr. Formhals and try to get a better handle on the biology involved. It’s also time for a heart-to-heart with Nancy Sanderson at First Avenue Grill; I need to explore the history of bad blood between her and the Thrushes. By the way”—I looked up from my notes with a wry smile—“I wish you’d told me that the restaurant trashed by Jason and his pals was the Grill. I’ve found Nancy’s behavior suspicious since Saturday night, but I couldn’t imagine what might have motivated her apparent antagonism toward Jason.”

Grinning, Pierce countered, “If you’d clued me that you’d found Nancy suspicious, I’d have supplied you with a motive.”

Neil suppressed a laugh.

With a shrug, I conceded the point. Uncapping my pen, I made a new note, telling Pierce, “Even though you’ve already questioned the entire cast of the play, I’m beginning to think I should have a talk with Nicole Winkler, the girl Jason dumped last year. Ditto for Tommy Morales—if there’s time.”

Pierce nodded, impressed with my plans. “You’ll be busy today.”

“I
have
to be, Doug. There are already enough people convinced that Thad killed Jason, making good on the very public threat he made last Wednesday night. Now that the word is out that Jason was indeed murdered—with mushrooms, no less—it won’t take long for word to spread that Thad is an apt, avid student of mycology.” I wasn’t about to mention the jar of fly agaric I’d found in his bedroom, so I concluded, “Thad’s interest in mushrooms is just another nail in his coffin.”

Barb choked on her soda. “
That’s
a morbid metaphor.”

I laughed lamely. “Sorry.”

Pierce laughed with me. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

Though I appreciated his sentiments, I’d have been all the more grateful if he’d said, It
won’t
come to that.

Neil brought the discussion back to basics. “The surest way to clear Thad is to expose the actual killer.”

“You make it sound so simple,” Pierce joshed. Then he pushed back his chair and stood, telling me, “I’ve got work to do, and the sooner the better. Call me if you learn anything, okay, Mark?”

“Absolutely.”

I made a move to get up, but Pierce gestured that we should all stay seated. We exchanged a round of good-byes and good-lucks; then Pierce left the kitchen through the back door.

Neil, Barb, and I continued discussing the past day’s developments on the case, but it soon became apparent that the answer to the central question—whodunit?—was simply beyond our grasp.

Barb stifled a belch, picked up her soda can and a plate bearing the remains of a bagel, and carried them to the sink. Pitching her trash in a waste bin under the counter, she turned over her shoulder, musing, “So Frank’s coming to dinner…”

I grinned at Neil, then told Barb, “
That
was an unusual segue; we were talking about murder. It seems tomorrow night’s dinner has captured your imagination.”

“Obviously.” She smirked. “So Frank’s coming to dinner… without Cindy.” She turned on the water, then ran the garbage disposal, which roared as it ground up something. At a subliminal level, was Barb watching Cynthia Dunne-Gelden swirl down the drain, feet first, screaming?

Neil ventured, “It seems you still carry something of a torch for the guy.”

Barb shut off the disposal and turned to us with a blank look. “Excuse me?”

I laughed. “God, Barb, could you
be
more transparent?”

She stepped halfway to the table, hands on hips. “What
are
you talking about?” She looked me in the eye, then Neil, then me again.

I explained, “You’ve perked up every time we’ve mentioned Frank’s name. When we first talked about him last Thursday morning, you remembered him from high school as a nerd, and you were intrigued by Doug’s statement that he’d matured into an attractive man. Then when you
met
Frank at Saturday night’s party, your eyes nearly sprang out of your head.”

“I admit,” she said, crossing the remaining steps to the table, standing between Neil and me, “Frank is a much better-looking man than the kid I knew in school.”

“Uh-huh.” Neil nodded knowingly. “But then Cynthia arrived in the kitchen, and when you learned she was Frank’s wife, you seemed stunned. Face it, Barb, you’ve got the hots for Frank.” Under his breath, he added, “Not that I blame you.”

“Listen, smart-ass.” Barb sat in the chair between us, leaning toward Neil. “If I seemed stunned when I met wifey-poo, it was not ’cause I used to think Frank was a dweeb—which he was. No, the wife blew me away ’cause I used to think Frank was
gay.
We all did.”

Her words came as a jolt to both Neil and me. I recalled meeting Frank the previous Wednesday night—my gaydar had gone on full alert. But then I saw his wedding ring, which spoke volumes more than our housekeeper’s high school gossip. Neil lectured Barb, “Just goes to show how wrong you were.”

She shook her head, clucking, then singsonged, “I’m not so su-uure.”

“Barb,” I said, leaning forward on the table, “why not just admit you were wrong and give Frank the benefit of the doubt. He’s married.”

Neil added, “Eight happy years.”

“You
guys
.” Barb rolled her eyes, laughing. “Haven’t you ever heard of a marriage of convenience?”

“I’m familiar with the term,” I assured her, “but there’s not a reason in the world to think that Frank and Cynthia’s marriage is anything less than genuine, loving, and committed.”

Neil nodded once—so there.

But Barb wouldn’t let up. She asked rotely, “Who’s older—Frank or Cindy?”

Neil answered, “Cynthia is forty-three, three years older than Frank. So what?”

“Who makes more money—Frank or Cindy?”

Neil conceded, “Cynthia does
very
well, yes. Frank’s a teacher.”

Barb had another question: “Who’s prettier—Frank or Cindy?”

There was a pause as Neil and I looked at each other. I answered, “I don’t mean to sound cruel, but objectively speaking, Frank is far better-looking.”

Barb nodded. “I’m stabbing at this one, but who’s the better cook?”

My sense memory of Frank’s crown roast of lamb still made my mouth water. I told Barb, “Don’t be ridiculous.”

She shrugged. “Can’t win ’em all. Still, I trust I’ve made my point.” She rose from the table, picked up everything but our coffee, and took the dishes to the sink.

Neil lolled back in his chair, finishing his coffee, looking slightly perplexed. I reached across the table, refilled his cup from the pot, then sat back, mirroring his languid position. I mirrored his perplexed expression as well. We looked at each other, silently asking, Could Barb be right?

Oddly, when I’d first met Frank, I’d
hoped
he was gay. Now, with someone
telling
me he was gay, I was reluctant to believe it. I didn’t even want to believe it. We’d visited the Geldens’ home and had already become a small part of their lives. This whiff of sexual intrigue became an oddball variable in the equation of our couple-to-couple friendship, an unsettling unknown, just at the time when I’d happily (and lustily) reaffirmed my “couplehood” with Neil. I’d finally learned to rein my roving eye. The last thing I needed to confront right now was temptation of the flesh—Frank’s flesh.

Barb finished cleaning the coffeemaker and loading the dishwasher. Wiping her hands, she told us, “It’s all set to go. Just load your cups and push the button.”

Neil asked her, “Headed out on errands already? It’s early.”

“Nah. Thought I’d go upstairs and do some practicing—if it won’t disturb you.”

“Not at all,” I told her as I rose from the table, crossing to the sink with my old
Chicago Journal
mug and the coffeemaker’s glass pot. “Have you started the clarinet lessons yet?”

She grimaced. “Tonight. It’s all set up. Thanks for introducing me to Whitney Greer. Nice man, very engaging—he took a real interest in my background as a money manager. He was also very helpful—found me a teacher from the orchestra.”

Neil said, “We heard you practicing yesterday. You’re
good,
Barb.”

“I
was
good, years ago. It’s gonna be a long road back.”

“That piece,” I said, “the piece you were playing yesterday—what was it? It was hauntingly beautiful, but I couldn’t quite place it. It sounded modern. And French, right?” I rinsed the coffeepot, swirling hot water in it.

“Yup. Olivier Messiaen. It’s from the third movement of his
Quartet for the End of Time
.”

“How cheery,” said Neil. He rose and joined us at the sink, rinsing his cup.

She explained dryly, “The composer wrote it from a German prison camp in 1941—he was having a bad day.”

Feeling chastised, Neil told her, “Sorry. Didn’t mean to be glib.” He put our cups in the dishwasher and turned it on.

I said, “The melancholy running through the music was unmistakable. But I thought I heard bird sounds as well.”

“Very
good
.” Barb pasted an imaginary gold star on my forehead. “The third movement—highly unusual, being a long clarinet solo—is titled ‘
Abîme des Oiseaux
,’ or ‘Abyss of the Birds.’ Later, Messiaen would frequently mimic birdsong in his music, but this was the first instance. I’ve got my work cut out for me; it’s a difficult piece.” She folded and hung the dish towel she’d been using.