Boy Toy (37 page)

“I presume you have a
very
good reason for this.”

“Denny, I’m in no mood for games either. Of
course
there’s a good reason.”

He paused—dramatically—then nodded his assent, dismissing me with a wave as he returned his attention to his notes.

For once, his cavalier attitude didn’t bother me in the least. Having gotten what I wanted, I stood, returned to the aisle, and bounded up to the back of the auditorium, where I slipped through the double doors to the lobby.

I recalled seeing a pay phone somewhere and spotted it near the glass doors to the street. My footfalls echoed as I crossed the ornately tiled lobby—its Moorish design seemed all the more exotic and mysterious in the semidarkness. Massive iron-framed chandeliers and wall lanterns hung black and bleak. The only indoor light came from a gaudy popcorn machine at the concession stand. Near the front doors, a diagonal slash of orange light angled in from the streetlamps and snaked across the contours of the phone. The coins rang loudly as I dropped them through the slots; then I punched in a number I had come to know well.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Doug. Sorry to bother you at home.”

“Always a pleasure, Mark. Besides, the law—like the press—never rests.”

“Glad to hear it. Finished with dinner?”

Pierce laughed. “Why?”

“I’m downtown at the theater, and I think you’ll want to join me.”

“Hm. Good show?”

“It’s only a rehearsal, and the first act, to quote the esteemed director/playwright, was ‘a bit rough.’ I have an inkling, though, that the evening is about to get considerably more interesting.”

“Oh?”

“Pardon the cliché, but at the end of act two, we should be ready to lower the curtain on the mystery of Jason’s death.”

Pacing the lobby, I waited for Pierce to arrive, thinking through everything I’d learned in the five days since Jason Thrush’s unexpected death. We’d come to understand that the boy was murdered—puzzle enough—but the most daunting challenge still lay ahead: to prove beyond doubt the identity of his killer. On the phone, I’d offered Pierce no specifics of my just-evolved theory, nor had I needed to. Without pressing for details, he’d offered to come down to the theater at once. I’d told him not to use the stage door; I would unlock the front entrance for him.

I could hear that the rehearsal had resumed inside the auditorium, so I attempted to muffle my steps as I crossed the tiled floor again to the front of the lobby, where I stopped and waited, watching the street through the row of plate-glass doors. First Avenue was quiet; it seemed that nothing moved in the eerie, palpable heat of the midsummer night. Double shadows, cast by warm lamplight and icy moonlight, added a disjointed, dreamy edginess to the surreal streetscape.

As the sheriff’s tan sedan rolled into view and parked at the curb, I turned the dead bolt on one of the doors and stepped out to meet Pierce under the marquee, preferring not to speak inside the lobby. The thud of his car door seemed to reverberate up and down the street, as did the amplified scrape of his soles on the cement as he walked toward me, offering the unspoken greeting of his handshake. “What happened?” he asked.

I began explaining, “I met with the coroner at his office this afternoon.”

Pierce nodded. “I heard that you’d been in the building. Was Vernon helpful?”

“Very. He offered a number of plausible explanations as to how Jason could have been poisoned by mushrooms without having actually eaten mushrooms. One of those possibilities seems suddenly relevant.”

“Okay”—Pierce smiled, his cheeks shining with sweat—“clue me in.”

“I learned that it would be possible to extract the two toxins—choline and muscarine—from fly agaric and to suspend them in alcohol, creating a tincture.”

“You mean… like a Mickey?”

I shook my head. “You wouldn’t have to
drink
the stuff. If you got enough of it on your skin, the toxins could be absorbed through the flesh, having the same effect as if the mushrooms themselves had been ingested.”

“Whew. That would explain why there were no mushrooms in Jason’s stomach. But where does
that
leave us?”

“I had no idea”—I grinned—“until tonight. Let me back up. Last Wednesday at dress rehearsal, when Jason and Thad had their set-to, I had noticed a sweet, fruity fragrance in the theater, and later, Kwynn Wyman wisecracked that Jason was wearing ‘cheap perfume.’ On Friday night when we responded to your page to the Thrush residence, I noticed the same smell in Jason’s bedroom, probably on his body; I assumed he had again overdone it with some cheap aftershave. On Monday, though, when you and I again visited his bedroom, I found that Jason didn’t use aftershave, but a pricey men’s cologne, Vétiver, which has a scent totally different from the one Kwynn and I had noticed.”

Pierce was listening patiently but looked skeptical. “Intriguing, yes. So…?”

“So tonight”—I paused—“Tommy Morales was sweating at intermission, and he reeked of the same ‘cheap perfume’ that Jason was wearing when he died.”

“God,” said Pierce, stunned. Barely above a whisper, he asked, “You mean that Tommy’s
aftershave
was used as a deadly tincture to kill Jason? Could Tommy be clever enough—or scheming enough—to commit such a crime?”

I answered merely, “We’ll soon find out.” Then I explained that the rehearsal’s second act was already in progress and that, at its conclusion, Denny Diggins had agreed to ask Thad, Tommy, and Joyce Winkler to remain after the others.

“Why Joyce Winkler?” asked Pierce.

“All in due time.”

We entered the lobby, I locked the door behind us, and then we slipped into the auditorium, where we took seats in the shadows of one of the back rows, watching the remainder of the rehearsal.

Thad’s performance deteriorated further, and the pacing of the second act was even worse than that of the first. Thad’s slump infected the entire cast, who now seemed resigned to the futility of their efforts—save Tommy Morales, a consummate trouper, oblivious to the slipshod dramatics that surrounded him. Had the scenery begun crashing to the floor, the performance would have been no worse, and in fact, a bit of unscripted commotion might have added a much needed spark to the floundering theatrics.

When at last the show was over—the action never climaxed as intended, but simply petered out—Denny called everyone to gather around for notes. There was none of the usual gabbing or horsing around as the kids came down from the stage. They already knew they’d done badly; their sole uncertainty was the extent to which Denny would vent his wrath.

He surprised everyone, though, by telling them calmly, “There’s not much need for specific notes on tonight’s weak spots. There were far too many, and you’re already aware of them.” He set aside his clipboard, its clamp bulging thick with notes. “And that’s my point: you’ve performed this show perfectly in the past, so you’re well aware of how it should look, sound, and feel. Tonight’s pickup was meant to remind and refresh; I only hope it hasn’t done more harm than good. I trust you’ve gotten the lethargy out of your systems—on Friday night, there’ll be a living, paying audience filling these seats, and if you fail to bring this show back to its previous high level, you’ll embarrass only yourselves.”

The cast hung their heads as he glanced from face to face. “It’s after ten already. I don’t need to tell you that your pacing was abysmal. So we won’t protract this sorry evening. Go home—go directly home, go to bed—and get some rest. Between now and Friday, review your blocking and run your lines. Friday night, you have the usual six-thirty call, curtain at eight. Any questions?”

They would barely look up at him. A few shook their heads. One of the girls in the cast was sniffling, dabbing tears and snot from her face with a Kleenex—their bungling had been that profound.

“You can be going, then, except for Tommy and Thad. May I ask you to stay, please? There’s something I need to discuss with both of you.”

Suddenly everyone seemed alert, attentive, and inquisitive. As they stood and prepared to leave, their heads wagged at each other, mouthing questions, wondering if this was “it.” Surfacing from this flurry of speculation was the obvious assumption that Thad was getting axed and that Tommy would step into the leading role of Ryan. For all I knew, this was exactly Denny’s intention. Had he forgotten that it was my request that he ask the boys to remain?

Nicole Winkler, looking as pretty and distraught as ever, again whispered something into her mother’s ear, but this time there seemed to be considerable urgency to her message. Other kids conversed in low tones, smiling or frowning in response to the presumed shake-up. One guy gave Tommy a discreet, congratulatory nudge with his elbow. Kwynn, visibly saddened by the prospect of Thad’s ouster, gave him a big, sympathetic hug. Then she moved away from him and headed backstage toward the door, as did most of the cast and crew.

“Oh!” said Denny, clunking his forehead (he was acting). “I just had a thought. Joyce? Joyce Winkler, could you also remain behind for a few minutes, please?”

This only reinforced the others’ assumption that Tommy was taking over Thad’s role—Denny was asking the costume mistress to stay late for a quick refitting. Heads turned in search of her; several people called her name. Someone said, “I think she left, Mr. Diggins. She and Nicole seemed to be in a hurry.”

“Ah, very well,” he responded with his dismissive, well-practiced wrist flick. Shuffling papers on his table, he turned and looked for me in the dark back rows of the auditorium, offering a shrug of apology for Joyce’s departure. He couldn’t see me though—his gesture was directed to the wrong side of the aisle.

Sitting next to me in the shadows beneath the balcony, Pierce whispered, “She’s gone. Is that a problem?”

“Maybe not. We’ll see.”

Within a couple of minutes, everyone had cleared out, except for Thad and Tommy, who now sat next to each other in seats near Denny’s table. The theater had grown quiet, except for the sounds of some routine puttering up in the control booth—Frank Gelden was shutting down after the rehearsal, or perhaps he was just busying himself while waiting for Tommy, who needed a ride home. Both Thad and Denny could assume that I was still there somewhere, though they couldn’t see me. No one was aware that Pierce was also present.

“Mr. Diggins?” said Thad, willing to take the lead in a difficult discussion. “I know I’ve been a disappointment, and I’m sorry.”

Denny told him, “You did beautifully—in both roles, Ryan and Dawson—all through rehearsal. And your opening night as Ryan was an absolute triumph.”

Thad nodded lamely. “Thanks, Mr. Diggins. But after that, things got…well, messed up for me. I’ve had a lot on my mind, and I know I’ve let you down.” Thad turned to the boy next to him. “Tommy, you really
should
play Ryan this weekend. You deserve it. I’ll just leave—it’s best for the show.”

“Now hold on,” said Denny through a soft, apprehensive laugh. “That would leave us in the lurch, Thad. Even if Tommy could pick up the role that fast, who’d play Dawson? I’d happily step into the part myself—I wrote it, after all—but I doubt if the audience would be quite that willing to ‘suspend disbelief.’ ” With a blurt of laughter, he added, “Me, a virile adolescent?”

Tentatively, both Thad and Tommy joined in laughing at the image Denny had conjured. Tommy turned to Thad, telling him, “No one wants you out of the show—at least
I
don’t.”

“And neither do I,” Denny added.

Thad looked relieved but, understandably, confused. He told Denny, “That’s, uh,
great.
But then why did you ask Tommy and me to stay late tonight?”

“Well,” said Denny, unable to mask his own confusion, “that’s a very good question. You see, I… er…”

I had already stood and started down the center aisle. Emerging from the shadows into the pool of light near the front of the stage, I explained, “Denny asked you guys to stay tonight in order to help me with something.”

Denny rose from his table. “
There
you are, Mahk. Thank God.”

“Hi, Mark,” said Thad, who had turned at the sound of my voice. A gentle smile conveyed that he was simply glad to see me, and I knew how important had been my efforts of the past five days. “What’s up?”

I stepped in front of the stage apron and turned to face Thad, who was seated in the front row with Tommy. Denny now stood near them in the center aisle. I told all three, “The one thing that would assure the success of this weekend’s run of
Teen Play
would be a resolution to the mystery of Jason’s death. If we could prove that Thad had nothing to do with the murder, he could concentrate on his acting and the rest of the cast could pull together again. Right?”

“Sure,” they answered, nodding. “Yeah.” “Of course.”

“Well, I think I’ve got it figured out.” With a chuckle, I added, “Thad had nothing to do with it.”

Tommy asked, “Who did it, Mr. Manning?”

Denny said, “Yes, Mahk. You’re sounding terribly sure of yourself tonight, whereas this morning, you were grasping at straws. Do tell us, if you truly can: Who murdered Jason Thrush? And how?”

I raised a finger, nodding. “The how is really the crux of this riddle; the who flows naturally from it.”

“For God’s sake,” said Denny, losing patience, “now
you’re
talking in riddles.”

“Sorry.” I slipped my hands into my pockets, taking a pace or two forward. “Let me explain. This afternoon, I learned from the coroner that Jason wasn’t
fed
poisonous mushrooms; the killer’s methods were far more sophisticated. What probably happened is this: someone who had a reason to want Jason dead was clever enough to extract the poisons from a local, lethal mushroom—fly agaric—and suspend them in a solution of alcohol, creating a deadly tincture. If this tincture was splashed over a large area of Jason’s skin, the poisons could be absorbed through his flesh, killing him, leaving the confusing evidence that he had died of mushroom poisoning when no mushrooms had been eaten.”

Denny tisked. “It’s theoretically
possible,
I suppose—I really wouldn’t know—but in practical terms, how would the culprit get a sufficient splash of the infected liquid onto enough of Jason’s skin?” He folded his arms smugly.