“Well,” said Glee, stating the obvious, “I’m here. Here in this room.”
Frumpkin gave Mary a pleading look.
She repeated, firmly, “Glee is my guest, Francis.”
Frumpkin turned to the reporter. His tone was menacing: “There’s a lot at stake here. I do not want you writing anything about this—not yet. Do you understand?”
The crowd was hushed. The room bristled with an electric sense of anticipation. Even Olivia, the little princess from hell, seemed to smell blood, watching with a hungry stare and bared teeth.
Frumpkin again asked Glee, “Do you understand?” His question sounded more like a command.
She waited a tantalizing moment and glanced at me with a crooked smile before telling Frumpkin, “I understand your wishes.”
“Good,” he said with a brusque nod. Affecting a breezier tone, he suggested, “Then let’s get started, shall we, everyone?” He stepped to the center of the room, joining his daughter in front of the easels. There were now three easels instead of two, one of them draped.
The eyes of the crowd followed his movement as he took position for his opening remarks. Mister Puss wandered off, perhaps for a better view.
Back on the sidelines, Glee stepped over to Marson and me. Speaking low, she told us, “I may understand Frumpkin’s wishes, but in the immortal words of Mick Jagger: you can’t always get what you want.”
Marson suggested, “Maybe just sit on it awhile?”
Glee shook her head. “Can’t. I’ve already drafted the story, and my editor loves it. Couldn’t stop it if I wanted to—which I don’t. I’d hoped to interview Frumpkin and get some missing details. Instead, I’ll just use a few quotes from his spiel.”
And the spiel had begun.
I found Frumpkin’s presentation predictable—I’d heard most of it at the restaurant on Tuesday night. No question, the man had an innate knack for showmanship. He knew how to tell a good story, and today, he had my drawings to back up his pitch, which made the FlabberGas concept seem less bizarre and more tangible.
At Tuesday’s dinner, Sarah had told me, “Dad’s always suffered from an acute sense of theater.” And today, those instincts were on full display as he whipped the draping from the third easel and revealed a huge blowup of the photo depicting his grandfather, Archibald Frumpkin, with the student pilots and the parachute. I had no way of knowing if the man in the photo was truly his grandfather. I had no way of knowing if his grandfather had actually floated provocative theories regarding the effects of altitude and oxygen on human metabolism. Whether fact or hokum, though, these particulars lent a folksy charm to the backstory of Frumpkin’s inspiration. He told the crowd that his grandfather was a genius. He then called me a genius, pointing me out as the architect of the proposed clinic. Applause filled the room.
While acknowledging the tribute with a wave, I noticed Jim Phelps, the veterinarian, looking at me, puzzled, perhaps dismayed. I gave him a sheepish shrug—and regretted not informing him earlier, when we’d met, that I was designing Frumpkin’s project, which Phelps had called “nuts.” As Phelps returned his focus to the presentation, Mister Puss moved out of the crowd and settled near the vet’s feet.
Then Sarah took over, offering to answer questions from the group. At once, hands shot up, waving eagerly. I thought, My God, they’re buying this.
Sarah called on one of Mary’s friends, a decked-out matron who asked, “I find all of this so fascinating. If FlabberGas does what you say it does, this could be bigger than Weight Watchers! But I don’t quite understand how the gas treatments work. Can you tell us more?”
Sarah said, “That’s a natural question at this point, since FlabberGas is such a revolutionary development. As to how it works, that’s a little beyond my paygrade.” Everyone laughed. Sarah continued, “Dad? Can you review this for us?”
“With pleasure.” Frumpkin indulged in a dramatic pause, waiting till all eyes were trained on him. “FlabberGas,” he began, “is the registered trade name for an overall treatment process that combines diet, exercise, and the administration of oxygen. The program is approved as safe and effective for loss of weight. What does the oxygen do? It contributes a glorious aura of well-being. And the hyperbaric chamber enhances the perceived efficacy of the weekly treatments.”
Quack.
Dr. Frumpkin flinched. A nervous titter rippled through the room. Heads turned in the direction of Jim Phelps.
He stood only a few feet from me, at the back of the crowd. The rude comment did seem to have come from him, as if uttered under his breath. He bobbed his head around, making an unconvincing display of wondering who had spoken. Even Mister Puss looked up at him with an accusing stare.
“Uh, Jim,” Frumpkin asked the vet, “did you say something?”
“Nope.” He chuckled. “Not me.”
“Anyway,” Frumpkin told everyone, “I realize the FlabberGas concept can be confusing, or even sound a bit crazy. But: seeing is believing. So I want to invite all of you to a demonstration of the technique later this weekend.” His words were received with excited chitchat and scattered applause.
The vet strolled over to Marson and me.
I said, “It seems Frumpkin didn’t win you over. To be honest, I’m not so sure myself.”
He rested his hand on my shoulder and looked me in the eye. “Brody, he’s a huckster. It’s a fraud.” Removing his hand, he added, “Frankly, it should be stopped.” Then he nodded good-bye, stepped away, and left the room.
Marson leaned near to ask, “Are you really having second thoughts about this?”
“I just don’t know.”
Frumpkin explained that the demonstration would be held at noon that Sunday at a small surgical clinic that he owned on the outskirts of town. He and several other doctors used it to perform various outpatient procedures, and it had a single hyperbaric chamber, which Frumpkin had been using for the testing and development of FlabberGas. On Sunday, of course, our little crowd would have the facility to ourselves.
“Now, here’s the exciting part,” said Frumpkin. “Maybe I should hold a raffle or an auction for this, but I need a volunteer to be the ‘subject’ of our demonstration.”
Someone joked, “You mean ‘victim,’ don’t you?”
Everyone laughed, including Frumpkin, who said, “No, not at all. ‘Guinea pig?’ Maybe.”
Mimicking a carnival barker, Sarah told the crowd, “All right, ladies and gentlemen, you heard the man. We need ourselves one—count’em, one—one brave guinea pig who won’t mind losing a little weight.”
The laughter waned. No one volunteered.
So Mary Questman herself came to the rescue. Stepping to the front of the crowd, she said, “I’ll be your guinea pig, Francis. But I’m not sure if I qualify—I’ve done this before.”
“Indeed you have.” Frumpkin beamed. “And of course you qualify. We’ll be honored to have you serve as our guinea pig on Sunday.”
Everyone applauded. Mary flopped a hand to her bosom, telling them, “Well, it’s not as if I can’t afford to shed another pound or two.” They laughed.
Marson and I exchanged a wary glance. I found it difficult to imagine our dear friend, Dumont’s doyenne philanthropist, laid out in public view with her open-toe Ferragamos peeping up through the plastic lid of a hyperbaric chamber. What was she thinking?
Mister Puss had made his way through the crowd and approached Mary, who lifted him from the floor and held him in her arms. As she prattled with her guests, the cat’s rumbling purr seemed to fill the room. He wriggled up her chest and stretched his snout to her cheek. Then he stuck his nose in her ear.
The next day, late Saturday afternoon, I was home at the loft with Marson, having returned together from the office after a few hours of catching up on various projects—the county museum, our perfect house, a proposal for a new university building in Appleton, and another for a civic center in faraway Oregon. Demand for the Miles & Norris design brand was definitely i
n expansion mode. Lucky us.
But I’d been troubled all day by the FlabberGas project—not only my involvement with it, but also Mary’s. At home now with Marson, I continued to pester him with my misgivings as we attempted to enjoy an early cocktail before heading out to dinner with friends. “Would it be unethical,” I asked my husband, “to withdraw from the project? I could refuse payment, take back the design, and be done with it.”
Marson swirled his drink. “No, I wouldn’t call it ‘unethical.’ But it might be stupid.”
I raised an inquisitive brow.
“Frumpkin would feel betrayed. This is a small town. Why create rifts? Plus, realistically, what are the chances he’ll ever get this built? If the project has no merit, investors won’t sign on. But if it does have merit, then all’s well. Meanwhile, collect your payment and take pride in your design—you deserve both.”
I had to admit, “I like your logic.” Then I frowned. “But what about Mary?”
Again the voice of reason: “She was involved with this before you were. She’s entitled to make her own decisions. She often confides in me, and if she were feeling bilked, I’d know about it.”
Right on cue, Marson’s cell phone rang. Glancing at the screen he said, “Speak of the devil.” Taking the call, he said, “Hello there, Mary! We were just talking about you. Yes, of course, all of it good. What can I do for you?”
Listening to his side of the conversation, I couldn’t get the gist of it, as she seemed to be doing most of the talking. Finally, he said, “Okay, Mary, we’ll try to take care of it. Don’t give it another thought. Bye, love.”
“Well?” I said as he took another sip of his drink. “Is she feeling bilked?”
“Not at all.” He was toying with me.
I gave him a look that said, Would you please get to the point?
He said, “Mary’s having second thoughts about being the guinea pig.”
“Thank God.” Relieved beyond measure, I added, “Glad it finally dawned on her—the indignity of putting herself on display like that.”
“No, that’s not the reason.” He rattled the ice that remained in his glass. “You see, Mister Puss told her not to go through with it. He’s been bugging her about it since last night.”
Mary had phoned Marson because she had already called Dr. Frumpkin several times and couldn’t reach him. She wondered if we could get in touch with Frumpkin’s daughter and let her know that Mary was backing out. I told Marson, “I can handle that—I’m the one getting paid.”
So I phoned Sarah Frumpkin Ward at home. She answered on the first ring, and I gave her the news.
“Ugh,” she said, “it’s always something, right? But hold on a sec.”
Her husband was there with her, and I heard her apprise him of the situation.
“No problem,” said Jason. “I’ll just do it myself.”
“Thanks, sweetie, that makes it easy.” Then she asked me, “You heard?”
“Yeah, great—didn’t want to leave you in the lurch.”
“All set, then. But why did Mary change her mind? Isn’t she feeling well?”
I hesitated. “Nothing like that. She’s fine. I’m guessing she felt the demonstration might come across as unladylike—she’s sorta old-school.”
“Such a sweet old soul,” said Sarah.
I couldn’t bring myself to tell her that the plans had been nixed by Mary’s cat.
Chapter 4
Glee Savage had told us, on Friday afternoon, that her editor at the Dumont Daily Register “loved” the draft of her FlabberGas story. She hadn’t exaggerated—her editor’s enthusiasm for the finished story proved sufficient to bump the lighthearted feature to page one of the Sunday edition.
While Marson and I woke up that morning with our coffee, we passed the paper back and forth for another read, and our initial appreciation of the story’s levity gave way to the sinking feeling that Dr. Frumpkin’s displeasure with its timing would surely be compounded by the story’s flippant tone, which verged on ridicule.
FlabberGas, anyone?
Local doctor to launch chain of gas clinics,
claiming new technique sheds flab
By Glee Savage
•
OCT. 10, DUMONT, WI—Dr. Francis Frumpkin, a noted dermatologist and cosmetic surgeon with offices in Dumont and Milwaukee, has a big idea for a smaller you. It involves a gas treatment administered in a hyperbaric chamber, inspired by the writings of the doctor’s grandfather, Dr. Archibald Frumpkin.
The elder Frumpkin’s field of practice was neither medicine nor weight loss, but aeronautical engineering. Though the connection may seem tenuous, Dr. Francis Frumpkin explains that his newly developed method “contributes a glorious aura of well-being” to the otherwise unpleasant rigors of dieting and exercise.
Too good to be true? Speaking to a group of potential investors on Friday, Dr. Frumpkin acknowledged, “I realize the FlabberGas concept can be confusing, or even sound a bit crazy.”
To counter some overtly crude skepticism expressed by one of the attendees, the doctor has arranged a demonstration of an actual gas treatment. Investors can then judge for themselves if there’s more than hot air to FlabberGas …
The column continued in this vein, tongue-in-cheek, to the bottom of the page. Marson blew a low whistle. “At least Glee didn’t give the time or location of today’s demo.”
I nodded. “And even though she hinted, she didn’t spill the beans that the mystery gas is nothing but plain old oxygen.”
“Now, that,” said Marson, “that would be grounds for murder.”
We both laughed.
Shortly before noon, Marson drove us out to the edge of town, where Associated Surgery Center was located along a woodsy stretch of county road. The building was hidden as we approached, but a sign at the roadside marked the entrance. It listed some eight or ten doctors who made use of the clinic for their outpatient procedures, including a gynecologist, an oral surgeon, and an ophthalmologist. But the biggest name, at the top, was Dr. Francis Frumpkin, who owned and had built the facility.
As we pulled into the parking lot, the first thing I noticed was the squad car.
It caught Marson’s eye as well. “Sheriff’s department. I wonder what’s up—Simms never drives one of those.”
A dozen or more other cars had already arrived, some of them known to us: Mary Questman’s spiffed but unpretentious Buick, Walter Zakarian’s massive Lincoln Navigator, Dr. Frumpkin’s sporty Mercedes, and a tan, anonymous-looking Chrysler that looked like the sedan normally driven by Sheriff Simms. With a measure of relief, I did not spot the distinctive fuchsia hatchback owned by Glee Savage. Marson parked his Range Rover between the tricked-out police cruiser and a silver Lexus that I didn’t recognize.
As we entered the lobby, we were “greeted” by a sheriff’s deputy with a clipboard who told us to identify ourselves. When we gave him our names, he scratched at the list and admitted us with a jerk of his head, sporting one of those Nazi haircuts with buzzed sides, so fashionable now among the alt-right and other white supremacists. Younger than I am, maybe thirty, he wore full trooper’s regalia, carried one too many guns, had spent obsessive hours at the gym, and took himself very seriously.
Once inside, out of earshot, Marson said, “Did you notice the name tag?”
“Indeed I did.” It was Alex Kastle, the election opponent of our friend Sheriff Simms.
Marson looked appalled. “How could Thomas ever hire such a creature?”
“I doubt that he did. Kastle must’ve already been on the force when Thomas took over.” I paused before adding, with a little growl, “Kinda hot, though.”
Marson rolled his eyes.
I was kidding, of course. While it was easy enough to imagine the deputy in some gay-porn scenario, I got the definite impression he just wasn’t into that. Maybe it was the dirty look that had washed across his features when I identified myself as Marson’s husband.
“Welcom
e, guys,” said Sarah Frumpkin Ward as she approached with a smile. She gave us each a little hug. “So glad you’re here. Big day, huh?”
Marson couldn’t wait to ask, “What’s with the storm trooper at the door?”
“Dad’s idea. He wanted a little extra security today—did I mention his flair for the dramatic? The deputy’s off duty. Moonlighting, I guess.”
I said, “You’d never know it—talk about dressed to kill.”
Sarah glanced at Kastle, who was giving the next guests a going-over. With a grin, she said, “Dad may have gotten more than he bargained for.” Then she moved on to greet the new arrivals.
I had meant to ask her if her father had seen that morning’s paper, but I knew there was slim chance he had missed it. Everyone in town seemed to subscribe, and the paper had hit the streets some six hours earlier.
Marson and I worked our way through the waiting room, which was getting crowded, having never been intended for such a gathering. In Mary’s gracious living room, these same twenty-some people had mingled with ease, but here in the clinic’s reception area, it was tight quarters.
Mary Questman was holding court in the far corner, gabbing with a clutch of country-clubbers. Spotting us, she trundled over for smooches, which we happily delivered. She bubbled, “Such lovely weather, isn’t it? It must be a good omen for Dr. Frumpkin’s big plans.”
She’d left Mister Puss at home, of course, but not Berta, who stood nearby with her perpetual scowl. Marson said hello to her. The housekeeper responded, “I can think of better ways to spend a Sunday afternoon, but I thought I’d better drive.”
With a touch of concern, I asked, “Why’s that?”
She leaned near. “Haven’t you noticed? Mary’s not as … grounded as she used to be.” Berta gave us a knowing nod. “If you have any doubts, just ask His Majesty.”
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