Although Simms had not previously met Frumpkin, he and Gloria were already on a first-name basis with Frumpkin’s daughter, Sarah, and her husband, Jason. This struck me as curious, till I realized that little Olivia and little Tommy were both in second grade at the same school. And it seemed they all attended the same church, St. Alban’s—a reminder that Dumont was indeed a small town.
Berta appeared with a tray of filled, chilled champagne flutes, and we all gratefully partook (not the kids, of course, who got ginger ale). I stepped over to Frumpkin, clinked his glass, and said, “Nice touch, the champagne.”
With a knowing nod, he replied, “No harm in a bit of lubrication prior to the pitch.”
Marson and Mary huddled nearby with the sheriff, who was telling them, “Don’t want to sound overconfident, but I’m starting to think the election’s a done deal. I met with the Register’s editorial board this week, and from the tone of it, they seem to think so, too.”
I stepped into the conversation, telling the sheriff, “I don’t know much about your opponent. Alex Kastle—he’s in your department?”
Simms exhaled a weary sigh. “Yeah, he’s a deputy. A deputy with ambitions.” He said no more.
“Well,” said Mary with a touch of indignation, “if his ambition is to replace you, Thomas, he’ll be mighty disappointed. If your funds run short, just let me know.”
“Thank you, Miss Mary. You’ve been way too generous already.”
Marson said, “The election’s still a month away. You can coast for a while and see if Kastle gets any traction—which he won’t.”
Simms reminded him, “The election may be a month away, but early voting starts two weeks from Monday.”
The doorbell rang, and Berta went to answer it. While leaving the room, she paused just long enough to stamp a foot near the back of the sofa where Mister Puss had retreated from Olivia’s pursuit.
Marson asked Simms, “So, Thomas—are you thinking of investing in FlabberGas? Or are you just here for the show?”
Mary answered for him. “Thomas is here because I invited him. He’s always welcome in my home. And if he happens to sniff an opportunity that’s of interest, all the better.”
At that moment, Mister Puss let out a yowl and raced to the middle of the room. Olivia followed, yelling, “I. Said. Here, Kitty!” With her little-princess dress, reddened face, and bared teeth, she looked possessed.
Sarah marched forward and grabbed her daughter by the arm. “You behave right now, young lady. Are you ready for a time-out?” The child seethed at her.
Tommy Simms, standing next to his mother, froze ramrod stiff, watching with unbelieving eyes.
Mister Puss, looking proud to have vanquished his tormentress, sauntered over to Tommy and nuzzled his shins. The boy stooped to pet the cat, whose purr rumbled in the silenced room.
Dahr stepped over to Sarah. “Why don’t I take her outside?” Sarah nodded. Dahr offered his hand, which Olivia took, and they left quietly together.
When the chatter resumed, Jason brought Sarah a fresh glass of champagne, telling his wife, “Doctor’s orders.” She mustered a weak laugh, thanked Jason, and drank.
I followed Mary as she joined them. She said, “I do hope your daughter finds herself in better spirits soon. It can have its rough spots—childhood.”
Jason said, “I’m sorry she was so disruptive, Mrs. Questman.”
“Nonsense, dear. She’s precious.”
Precious? I thought Tommy Simms was precious, the embodiment of a model child. But Olivia was an absolute hellion.
Sarah said, “She’s gotten into this phase of ‘acting out.’ The only good thing about phases—they pass. At least that’s what they say. Any time now, I’m ready.”
Jason asked, “Any word from Dr. Hammond?”
Sarah brightened. “Yes, in fact. His office called while I was in the car.” She turned to explain to us, “Since all of this started, about six months ago, Jason and I have been taking Olivia to a number of child psychologists, as far away as Milwaukee, but as you’ve just seen, not much progress. So we’ve been trying to get in with Dr. Hammond in Green Bay, one of the best anywhere. He’s busy, naturally, and with schedules and school, we haven’t been able to land an appointment. But now”—she pivoted to her husband—“they just had a cancellation, so there’s an opening tomorrow at one.”
“Honey, I’m slammed tomorrow. We can’t rebook that many patients now, on Friday afternoon.”
“I’ll take her.”
“We’re a family. We’re in this together. I want to be there for both of you.”
“I know, sweets,” said Sarah, “and I appreciate your commitment. But God only knows when there’ll be another opening on a Saturday. So I’m taking her.”
Jason shrugged, but he didn’t look happy to be left out.
Over the next quarter hour, guests continued to arrive, some of them known to me—a banker, a lawyer or two, and Clem Carter, who was building our house—but there were several others I didn’t recognize at all, conspicuously older, who must have been denizens of the moneyed elite invited by Mary from surrounding towns. The presentation was not set to begin for another ten minutes, so everyone mingled and gabbed, gravitating near the drawings on the easels, which drew both high praise and muffled snickers. In any other circumstances, I would have taken umbrage at having my work laughed at, but given the whimsical nature of the FlabberGas project, I took it as a compliment.
Berta continued to circulate with a silver tray bearing finger food—shrimp, tiny crab cakes, and inch-sized cubes of rare beef tenderloin on toast points. Mister Puss followed at her heels; she looked down now and then to hiss at the cat or tell him to scat. When Berta approached me with the tray, I said, “Looks like someone must enjoy your cooking. Or is it just the fish?”
Deadpan, Berta informed me, “His Majesty prefers beef.”
“Then I’ll have to try it.” Which I did, finding it sublime. The cat moved from Berta’s ankles to mine.
Berta leaned near as I chewed and swallowed, telling me, “And not just any beef, mind you, not for His Majesty. Mary added ground sirloin to my shopping list, with a note that said, ‘Mister Puss might enjoy it, but make sure it’s good and lean.’ So I brought back a pound. Next day, another note: ‘He didn’t care for it. Better pick up a nice tenderloin. Help yourself to the ground sirloin for lunch.’ So I ended up eating His Majesty’s leftovers.”
I tried not to laugh. Marson had always described Berta as “impertinent,” but I thought a better adjective might be “woebegone.” I said to her, “Mister Puss has highly refined tastes. It’s excellent, Berta.” And I took another.
Berta flashed me a wry smile, then turned to other guests.
As she moved away, I ate the toast and gave the meat to the cat. He ate it with such rapture, he quivered. When he finished, he reached a paw to my knee, so I picked him up, holding him with one arm. As I carried him about the room, he seemed to appreciate the elevated perspective of the proceedings, purring in response to the tweaks and twiddles that others offered while we moved through the crowd.
“A fine animal, isn’t he?” The man who made the comment had a deeply lined but kind, smiling face and wore a corduroy sport coat with knotted-leather buttons. He looked about sixty or so and seemed, for lack of a better word, somewhat countrified, slightly out of place but totally at ease in Mary’s elegant living room.
I introduced myself.
He said, “Jim Phelps. I’m Mary’s vet. I mean, I’m the cat’s vet.” He laughed.
Mister Puss got squirmy, so I reached down and dropped him the last foot to the floor. He stretched, found his land legs, and wandered into the crowd.
I shook the doctor’s hand. “She really dotes on Mister Puss. And why not? He’s a great little guy.”
“A fine animal,” the vet repeated. Leaning close, he added, “And highly intelligent.”
I thought, Did he just wink at me? He did. He knows. He knows that Mary t
hinks the cat talks to her.
Without explanation or context, I asked him quietly, “Should I be concerned about Mary?”
With the slightest shake of his head, he said, “Nah. On balance, the cat’s good for her.”
“My thoughts exactly.”
“On the other hand,” said Phelps, “I am concerned about Mary buying into this FlabberGas nonsense.”
“You think it’s nonsense?” I wasn’t being defensive; I wanted to know.
“Well, yeah. Granted, I’m here to learn, and I’ll keep an open mind. But on the surface? It sounds nuts.”
His down-to-earth logic shook me. Had I gotten myself involved with a project I should have turned down at the outset? I shook his hand again. “Glad to meet you, Jim.” And I stepped away, plucking from my sleeve a few stray hairs from Mister Puss—without ever having mentioned that I was Frumpkin’s architect.
Dahr Ahmadi returned to the living room with Olivia in tow. The girl looked calm now, but there was something about that princess dress that stressed me. Why, I wondered, were parents now letting little kids wear “costumes” as normal attire? Halloween was just around the corner—couldn’t it wait? And the worse infraction, at least to my mind, was that the dress looked ratty. If you’re doing the princess-thing, glam it up. But Olivia’s Cinderella appeared to have stepped from the scullery, not the ball. Were her parents blind to this, or was Olivia simply incapable of getting through the day without making a mess of herself? Honestly, she’d have looked better, prettier, in jeans and a sweater.
I watched as Dahr delivered Olivia to Sarah, who sat down with her daughter on the piano bench and tried to fix her hair, spruce her clothes.
Then Dahr moved over to Jason Ward and huddled with him in conversation. But Jason quickly backed off and raised his voice. Dr. Frumpkin must have sensed trouble, so he stepped in, as did I. Jason was saying, “When I want advice, Dahr, I’ll ask for it.”
Frumpkin, sounding testy, reminded them, “This isn’t the time or the place.”
Dahr said, “My apologies, Francis. Just trying to help.”
“Help?” said Jason. “You’re incompetent.”
Frumpkin told Jason, “You know that’s not true.” He checked his watch. “We need to get this rolling soon. Let’s shape up and look smart.”
Dahr went over to the piano bench and helped with Olivia’s hair.
Frumpkin stepped aside with me, confiding, “My son-in-law has become jealous of my nurse practitioner.”
I wasn’t sure I’d heard him correctly. “Why would Jason be jealous of Dahr?”
“Simple,” said Frumpkin. “I’ve made no secret of my efforts to woo Dahr, and although I’ve had little success—so far—Jason seems to fear that my relationship with Dahr will bring him into the family and into the business. I’d like that. Jason wouldn’t.”
As Frumpkin moved over to the piano to review his notes with Sarah, I noticed that the room had grown dusky. At four o’clock in October, it was still a couple of hours till sunset, but the day had been gray, and a full canopy of trees surrounding the grand old home was an effective barrier to the remaining sunlight.
Mary entered the room from the hall and, noticing the dim surroundings, switched on the chandeliers, which drew a gasp of surprise from the guests, perhaps twenty of us. “That’s better,” she said, although to my eye, the room now seemed too bright.
At her side was Walter Zakarian, a portly but elegant man who had recently returned from a hush-hush birthday trip to Puerto Vallarta, celebrating his fiftieth.
Some said he had a shady past—there were rumors that his long-ago ancestors had dabbled in the slave trade with Persians and Turks. His version of the story was different—his forebears had built their wealth as honorable traders of spices, then silk, and finally rugs. To this day, he carried on that tradition in Dumont, where he owned the region’s largest flooring and carpeting business. In his cable commercials, he called himself the Karastan King.
A clotheshorse with a taste for custom tailoring, he often donned a tux and served as escort to several of the town’s wealthier widows, including Mary, but the lifelong bachelor fooled no one. Deeply closeted, he maintained his charade in Dumont, fearful that doing otherwise would be bad for business. Marson and I found this attitude ridiculous. “Who cares,” Marson once asked me, “if the guy selling you a rug is gay?”
But Zakarian cared, so he bottled up his desires and packed his bags for occasional quick getaways to a condo he owned—south of the border. A year ago, one of these escapades had gone seriously awry, and the trouble followed him back home. As a result, he still limped. Which gave him an excuse to augment his vast wardrobe with a collection of antique walking sticks. Today’s was made of rosewood, capped with the head of a toucan, carved from jade. He squeezed its beak as he hobbled in my direction.
From a few feet off, Sheriff Simms watched with a grin as Zakarian closed in on me.
“Wonderful so see you, Brody.” Zakarian shook my hand. “It’s been too long.”
“Just back from Mexico, Walter? You’re looking tanned and rested.”
“Yes, yes, it was lovely, thanks. The birthday was a gruesome milestone, but it beats the alternative. I tried to make the best of it.” He shifted his weight as he spoke. The tip of his cane poked dimples in the deep wool pile of the Karastan he’d sold Mary.
I asked, “Are you here to learn about FlabberGas? Or just keeping Mary company?”
“Both, I guess. She says it might be a good investment opportunity, so who knows? Never hurts to get in on the ground floor.” He paused, scowled. “Except …”
I noticed that Dr. Frumpkin was watching our conversation. I asked Zakarian, “Except what?”
The direction of his glance told me that he, too, had noticed Frumpkin watching us. “I just don’t like him—Francis Frumpkin. We’ve had issues.”
“Oh, really?” I was tempted to add, What sort of issues? But I refrained.
“Yes, really. So be careful with him. I know you’re working for him.”
Zakarian’s choice of words—that I was “working for” Frumpkin—gave me pause. Was that how people saw it? To my mind, I had merely taken on a design commission.
“Speaking of which,” said Zakarian, “I’m dying to see what you’ve cooked up for Francis. Excuse me while I go take a look at your drawings.” And he shuffled off toward the easels, where people were starting to gather for the presentation.
Sheriff Simms stepped over to me and asked, “How’s our friend doing?”
“With Walter,” I said, “how can you tell? I’ve never known anyone more guarded, more circumspect. Beyond all the beautiful clothes and well-chosen words—deeper than that, there seems to be nothing. At least, nothing he’s willing to reveal.”
“And that was the problem, wasn’t it?” said Simms.
He was referring to the incident a year ago, when Walter had been the target of mischief that could have proved deadly. Though he survived, he had offered no cooperation in helping the investigation get to the bottom of what had happened. Because aspects of the case had pointed to Walter’s closeted “other life,” Simms had come to rely on Marson and me for insights and advice.
Watching Walter, who was now huddled with Sarah Frumpkin Ward, I said to Simms, “That was the problem, all right. How do you save a man who refuses to be helped?”
Simms patted my arm. “But you solved it, Brody. Still don’t know how you figured it out, but you helped close the case.”
With a soft laugh, I recalled, “Just the other night, Marson was bragging on me. He told Dr. Frumpkin that I’m ‘a first-class problem-solver.’ And now? I’m designing—of all things—a FlabberGas clinic.”
“Works for me,” said Simms. His radiant smile rivaled Dr. Frumpkin’s—without the cosmetic upgrades. Then he stepped away to join his wife and their young son.
I checked my watch and saw that it was a few minutes past four. Spotting Marson near the edge of the group in the
middle of the room, I moved to join him, asking, “Are the natives getting restless?”
“Hardly. The champagne is still flowing. They’re fine.”
“Where have you been?”
“Circulating. Singing your praises.”
“Too kind.” I paused. “Is there actually any interest in FlabberGas?”
He chuckled. “We’ll soon find out, won’t we?”
And then, Glee Savage arrived.
Mary spotted her from the far end of the room, where she stood with a banker friend, holding Mister Puss. With a yoo-hoo, she called, “Welcome, love! I was afraid you might not make it.” All heads turned.
Standing in the doorway to the hall, Glee removed a little fur shrug, handed it to Berta in exchange for a glass of champagne, and strutted into the living room on five-inch heels. “Hellish day at the office,” she said. “Did I miss anything?”
“Just the appetizers,” said Mary, meeting her halfway, kissing cheeks. “But the show’s about to begin.”
“Fabulous.” Glee leaned in to touch noses with Mister Puss. “I’d like to nab Dr. Frumpkin for a few quick questions first, or should I wait?”
“Suppose we go ask him,” suggested Mary.
But Frumpkin was already barreling toward them. Stepping between the ladies, he asked Glee, too loudly, “What are you doing here?”
“It so happens I was invited.” She flashed him a stiff smile, then sipped her champagne.
Mary set down Mister Puss, telling Frumpkin with measured patience, “This is my home, Francis. Glee is my guest.”
I was standing nearby with Marson. The cat came over and sat at my feet, watching the confrontation—along with everyone else in the room.
Frumpkin looked steamed, but restrained himself. He explained, “Forgive me, dear Mary, but it makes me a bit uneasy to include a member of the working press.”
With innocent curiosity, Mary asked, “Why? I thought the whole purpose today was to promote your project.”
“Certainly … yes,” said Frumpkin, careful with his words, “but the message we want to send to the public is one thing. It’s different from our messaging to potential investors. Today we’ll discuss strategies, numbers—nuts and bolts intended only for those of us here in this room.”
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