With her big hats and big purses, with her ruby-red lips and high-heeled strut, with her bounce, her panache—Glee was the long-established voice of culture sounding in these timbered hinterlands. She had played many roles at the Register, which must have been the key to her longevity. By serving as everything from beat reporter to gal Friday to women’s editor to arts reviewer, she had now been elevated to the ranking position of features editor, one of the few bones left on the newspaper’s skeleton staff.
Thursday morning, Glee phoned me at my office, confirming our plans to tour the building site. She asked, “Shall I meet you there?”
Everyone in town knew her car, a honey of an ancient Gremlin hatchback with a fuchsia paint job, pristine whitewalls, and baby moon hubcaps. I struggled to envision it negotiating the ruts and mud of the undeveloped land I would eventually call home, so I suggested, “Let me pick you up. I’ll borrow Marson’s Range Rover.”
“Sounds wonderful, love. I’m working from home today—seems to be the trend.”
“I’ll swing by at eleven. And be sure to wear flats.”
Which gave me another hour to tinker with the pair of computerized drawings I was finishing for Dr. Frumpkin. One of them was rendered as a basic two-point perspective, detailing the building itself. The other was a more elaborate three-point perspective, looking up from ground level to accentuate the clinic’s zany angles, set against a fanciful backdrop of palms and mountains and sapphire sky.
Last night after dinner, I had worked late on them at the loft, so there was little left now but tweaks. Before long, I added our logotype, MILES & NORRIS, ARCHITECTS, LLC, to a lower corner of each image. Then I sent the electronic files to be printed, laminated, and mounted. Because Frumpkin wanted impact, I ordered them four feet wide.
There’s something about an October sky—the angle of the sun, maybe. With summer’s haze long gone, the intense late-morning blue verged on indigo, rivaling even the storybook sky I’d dropped into the drawing of the FlabberGas clinic. And this wasn’t la-di-da Palm Springs, but central Wisconsin.
At the wheel of Marson’s whopping hunter-green Range Rover, I drove the few blocks from downtown Dumont to the quiet side street where Glee Savage lived alone in a tidy Craftsman-style bungalow, which she had perked up with fuchsia trim. Potted pink geraniums lent pops of color to the front porch. Flanking the gate at the sidewalk, huge bushy stalks, at least ten feet tall, sprouted spectacular palmate leaves, an exotic look for this small Midwestern town; these were some of Glee’s prized castor plants. She made a hobby of harvesting their beautiful beans—the source of deadly ricin—and stringing them into necklaces and bracelets that provided primitive accents to her ever-changing wardrobe, which was both fearless and chic.
That Thursday was no exception. She was waiting for me inside her gate when I pulled up at eleven and got out of the SUV to greet her. As she stepped outside the gate, I noticed that she’d heeded my advice to wear flat shoes, and I couldn’t recall if I’d ever seen her not wearing spike heels. Today she wore strappy low-heeled boots that rose almost to her knees; shocking Mercurochrome-colored slacks that otherwise resembled jodhpurs; a glittery, feathered hat (always a hat) that might once have been a pith helmet; and something like a flak jacket, gussied up with a sizable broach of rose quartz and a double string of castor beans. With the Range Rover idling at the curb, she looked ready for a swingin’ safari.
“Brody sweets,” she gushed, delivering a kiss, “you look amazing, as always.”
I was wearing what I normally wore to the office—sport coat and tie—nice enough but nothing special. And I’d ditched the Italian loafers for a pair of clunky Wolverine work shoes I kept under my desk for visits to building sites. With a laugh, I told Glee, “I can’t compete with you, doll.”
Her simper seemed to tell me, Get real. She said, “Gorgeous green eyes, thick sandy hair, body to die for—you’d look great in anything.”
I rolled my eyes. Then I helped her up into the vehicle.
As we pulled away from the curb, I asked, “Did you bring a camera?” She always carried a huge, flashy purse; she seemed to have hundreds. As for today’s, she could’ve stashed a tripod and super-telephoto lens inside it.
“No need for a camera. They have us taking pictures with our phones now, if you can believe it. There’s only one real photographer left on staff, and he’s pretty much limited to studio work.”
“And yet,” I said, “the Register is a fine little paper. Not many small towns even have a local daily anymore. You should be proud.”
Glee reached across the console to squeeze my elbow, a silent thank-you that spoke volumes. She might have been wondering which would expire first—her lengthy career at the Register, or the paper itself.
Our drive lasted barely ten minutes, but it took us out beyond the edge of town to a parcel of land that few people even knew existed. It had been part of the expansive holdings of the Questman family, whose name was still synonymous with the timber and paper empire that had been Dumont’s original raison d’être. Mary Questman had first shown it to Marson a few years earlier, when he was designing the performing-arts center. Later, after I entered his life, he bought the land from Mary, surprised me with the deed and a topographical survey, then challenged me: “Design the perfect house.”
Glee had seen the house plans, but not the land. “Good heavens,” she said as we got out of the SUV, “it’s breathtaking.”
The site was lightly wooded with birches where it opened to a prairie, which was held in trust by a conservancy. A stream ran through a craggy ravine, forming a playful waterfall of perhaps twenty feet where some Ice Age mischief had cleaved upper and lower plateaus. When Marson had first taken me there, my heart skipped a beat, and I knew how Frank Lloyd Wright must have felt on his first visit to Bear Run in Pennsylvania. The similarity of this setting was arresting, and I quickly formed a mental image of the vista that would be enjoyed from a house perched on the upper plateau—a prairie view that would never change, never be developed, preserved for posterity.
In a hushed tone, Glee asked me, “Know what this reminds me of?”
I put an arm around her shoulders as we looked up at the stream’s gently falling water. “Of course,” I said. “You’ve seen my drawings of the house; the inspiration was pretty obvious.”
“But you took a more minimal approach. Wright’s concept was to make the house seem like an outgrowth of nature. Yours is more … polished.”
I recalled, “Marson called my design ‘a faceted jewel in the woods.’”
“Yes!” said Glee, flinging her arms wide. “Brody, you’ve just given me the headline for my story.” And with that, she whipped the phone out of her purse and went to work snapping pictures.
Meanwhile, I inspected the grading that had been completed on Wednesday—the main footprint of the house on the upper plateau, as well as the sloped access that would eventually become the driveway. Orange stakes protruded from the ground, delineating the outer walls of the house and the anchor-points of the cantilever that would extend over the water. I stepped into our “living room” and surveyed the view.
“How’s it look?” asked Glee, approaching me from behind.
I turned to her and grinned. “Perfect.”
Back in the Range Rover, I managed to turn us around and began a slow exit of the property, following the tracks left by construction equipment the day before. Glee was dashing off something in shorthand on her spiral-bound steno pad. The chain attached to her reading glasses swung at the sides of her neck as the vehicle found its footing. She asked, “How did Marson convince Mary to sell the land? It’s a little slice of paradise out here.”
“Off the record?”
She closed her notebook.
I explained, “When Mary first showed him the land, she told him she’d been tendered many offers for it over the years, but she’d never felt right about parting with it. Then, after I entered the picture, Marson approached her with an ide
a—our perfect house—and she was all in. She sold him the land for a song. They sealed the deal then and there. As a deposit, Mary took whatever cash Marson had in his pocket.”
Glee let out a loud laugh. “That is so Mary.”
“I guess she likes us.”
Glee paused. When she spoke, her voice carried a note of concern. “So you and Marson, you genuinely care about Mary, right?”
“Absolutely.”
Glee explained, “I’ve known her forever. Not that we run in the same circles, but we’re at all the same charity events—I write the stories, she writes the checks. And over the years, we’ve grown to be close friends. Two tough old birds. Bosom buddies. So I can’t help feeling a bit worried.”
“Why?” I eased off the gas and turned my eyes from the road to look at Glee. “Is something wrong?”
“Well, I hope not.” With a little snort of laughter, she added, “It’s just—that cat.”
I shared the laugh and returned my attention to the road. “Mister Puss? He’s a cutie pie. What’s the matter—allergic to him?”
“Brodie.” Her castor beans rattled as she pivoted in her seat to face me. “You know very well that’s not the issue. She talks to him. More to the point, he talks back. At least she thinks he does.”
“Maybe he does.”
“Brody. I’m serious—don’t you find this at all disturbing?”
I hemmed. “These last few months, Mary’s had a new spring in her step. The cat brings her pleasure. If she has conversations with Mister Puss, that’s harmless enough.”
“I suppose,” said Glee. “Although sometimes, you have to wonder.”
With a chuckle, I asked, “Did Mary tell you? Mister Puss gave her the thumbs-up to invest in FlabberGas.”
Glee froze for a moment, suddenly on full alert. She removed her glasses. “What?”
Oops. I said nothing.
“Brody? Sweetie?” The inflection of her kindly words carried an undisguised lilt of menace.
So I told her all about it.
She had her glasses back on—she was taking notes again—when she asked with delicious anticipation, “And the presentation at Mary’s place is when?”
“Tomorrow afternoon, four o’clock.”
She clicked her ballpoint. “I’ll call her. Maybe I can finagle an invitation.”
“From your bosom buddy? I should think so.” I slowed the SUV as we approached downtown Dumont on First Avenue.
Glee glanced at her watch. “Hungry? I owe you lunch.”
“You got that right.”
Chapter 3
Friday afternoon, Marson and I arrived at Mary Questman’s house on Prairie Street around three o’clock, an hour before the scheduled start of Dr. Francis Frumpkin’s presentation, pitching his chain of FlabberGas clinics to potential investors. Mary greeted us at the door with a kiss and a cheery “Welcome, boys—do come in.” As we stood in the open doorway, Mister Puss circled Mary’s ankles, purring.
Marson asked, “Aren’t you afraid he’ll take off?”
“Oh, no. Mister Puss would never pull a stunt like that—he promised.”
Marson laughed with Mary and turned to give me a wink.
As Mary closed the door, the cat left her ankles to investigate mine. His purring grew louder as he peered up at me.
I crouched to give him a rub behind the ears. “How’s every little thing in your world, Mister Puss?” He reached a front paw to my knee and stretched his head to my face, touching his nose to my chin. His purr grew so intense, it gurgled.
Mary twittered, “Someone has a new friend.”
“Me?” I asked. “Or Mister Puss?”
“Both of you.”
He seemed to want me to pick him up—odd for a cat, I thought—so I did, lifting him with one arm as I stood again.
We weren’t the first to arrive. Mary said, “Francis is in the living room. Can you show yourself in? I need to check with Berta in the kitchen.”
“Of course,” Marson told her. “We’ll be fine.”
Mary retreated to the back of the hall and through a swinging door as we made a turn and stepped through the double doors to the living room.
A grand and gracious space, it bespoke old money, with softly patterned wallpaper, white enameled doors and trim, and tall windows draped in bone-colored silk. A nine-foot Steinway anchored one end of the room, with a stately marble-faced fireplace dominating the opposite wall. Three matching chandeliers hung overhead; thick wool carpeting stretched underfoot. In the middle of the room, a large grouping of upholstered furniture had been spread apart to form a clearing for the two easels that held my drawings, delivered earlier that day.
As we entered, Frumpkin turned from the easels, where he stood with another man, and beamed that perfect, manufactured smile. In his cashmere jacket—peacock blue, with a poofed-up yellow pocket silk that looked like a canary perched near his shoulder—he bounded across the room to greet us. “Brody,” he bellowed, “I couldn’t be more thrilled with your work!”
As he neared us, Mister Puss squirmed from my arms, dropped to the floor, and retreated to the foot of an overstuffed armchair, where he sat and watched.
Frumpkin pumped my hand, holding on too long while turning to tell Marson, from the side of his mouth, “What a talented young man you’ve got.”
Marson responded dryly, “Thank you, Francis.”
I said to Frumpkin, “Glad you’re pleased.”
Leading us over to the easels, he said, “You need to meet Jason, my son-in-law.”
Dr. Jason Ward, husband of Frumpkin’s daughter, Sarah, was about my age or so, maybe forty. Reasonably good-looking, lean, and very clean-cut, he fit the visual stereotype I’ve often associated with doctors. As we conversed, I found him well-spoken but not animated, certainly not in comparison to Frumpkin, whose presence seemed to command all of the energy in any setting. In that sense, Jason was a good match for Sarah, both of them living in the shadow of—and working for—the flamboyant Dr. Frumpkin.
Jason pondered the drawings for a moment. “Hard to believe this is about to get off the ground. To be honest, the idea struck me as far-fetched at first. But now? The sky’s the limit.”
“If”—Frumpkin, raised a cautionary finger—“if, and only if, we can convince a few members of the investing class that the potential rewards are worth the risk.”
I reminded him, “Mary seems sold.”
“Bless her heart,” said Frumpkin with a grin that made me uneasy.
The doorbell rang, and I heard some to-and-fro in the hall as Frumpkin questioned Marson about construction lead times.
“Start to finish, a year ought to do it.”
Berta, Mary’s housekeeper, led Sarah Frumpkin Ward into the room, along with a little girl and an attractive (very attractive) middle-aged man. Berta watched as Mister Puss skittered behind a sofa, then she flashed him a scrunched, ugly face before leaving for the kitchen.
Sarah told the girl, who hung behind her, “Say hi to Grampa.”
Frumpkin crouched and waved the girl forward, “Come on, Olivia. Grampa wants a kiss.”
She skipped over to him, delivered the requested peck, and pulled back again.
Jason crouched. “Hey, princess, what about Daddy?”
But Olivia wasn’t interested. She’d spotted Mister Puss and was stalking him from the far side of the couch.
Introductions were made. I learned that Olivia was seven years old, in second grade, and “a bit of a problem these days,” according to her mother. The attractive man, as I had guessed, was Dahr Ahmadi, Frumpkin’s certified nurse practitioner. Because both Frumpkin and his son-in-law had earlier driven their cars to Mary’s house, Dahr had driven Sarah to pick up Olivia after school.
It was easy to see why Frumpkin was so taken by Dahr, with his natural body tan and a hint of the exotic in his Persian features. I didn’t know much about his culture, but I knew it wasn’t gay-friendly, so I had to wonder if Frumpkin was barking up
the wrong tree. Nonetheless, my trusty gaydar was sending signals that Frumpkin was on the right track. Marson sensed it, too—he couldn’t take his eyes off the guy.
Dahr shook our hands. “You’re the architects? Really great to meet you.” Tuesday evening, Sarah had mentioned that Dahr was Iranian, but he spoke with no accent at all, so I gathered he had moved here long ago.
Marson replied, “It’s our firm, yes. But Brody designed this project.”
Dahr looked at the drawings. “Amazing, Brody! Francis has talked of nothing else since your dinner meeting. He says you’re a genius. I agree.”
I liked him. I’m easy.
Next to arrive was Thomas Simms, our county sheriff. A tall black man with a graceful bearing and a refined workday wardrobe of natty business suits and eye-popping rep neckties, Simms defied every stereotype of the small-town cop. He had also defied all the odds of rising from the rank of detective and being elected top lawman in Dumont County, where the white-bread demographics were as rooted as the region’s timbered past. With his modest nature and a caring spirit, Simms had coasted to that first election while still in his thirties. Now in his early forties, he was up for reelection within a few weeks, in November.
Not long after my arrival in Dumont, when I first met the sheriff at a chamber luncheon, I had asked Marson if Simms was gay. “No,” said Marson, “not unless his wife, Gloria, and their little Tommy are parties to an elaborate sham.”
Gloria and Tommy were with the sheriff today as Mary escorted them into the living room. Gloria, like her husband, had a sharp sense of style, never looking less than sensational; she managed to make most other women in Dumont look frumpy. Their well-mannered young son was adorable in a tiny blazer and dressy wool slacks.
Mary asked, “Do you know everyone, Thomas?”
“Yes, Miss Mary, I think so, except Dr. Frumpkin. Don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.” He and Frumpkin shook hands and exchanged pleasantries. The sheriff wished the doctor good luck with his new business venture; the doctor wished the sheriff good luck with his reelection.
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