She hugged herself through a heavy chenille bathrobe (rusty orange for autumn, the color reminded her of Mister Puss’s coat), then she stooped to pick up her rolled and bagged copy of the Dumont Daily Register.
Stepping indoors again, she set the paper on the table but was reluctant to open it. By the time the coffee was ready, the windows had brightened to the new day, so Mary switched off the light and carried the coffee to the table, where she tugged the paper out of its bag and let it flop open in front of her. The top story was no surprise.
Was it murder?
FlabberGas demo goes deadly
in front of throng of investors
Compiled from Register staff reports
•
OCT. 11, DUMONT, WI—Dr. Jason Ward died early Sunday afternoon under suspicious circumstances while undergoing a hyperbaric oxygen treatment at Associated Surgery Center, owned by Dr. Francis Frumpkin.
The victim, a member of Dr. Frumpkin’s staff, was participating in a demonstration of a novel weight-loss process being presented to a group of potential investors, who witnessed the fatal turn of events. An investigation is already under way by Sheriff Thomas Simms …
The lengthy story contained scant news that was not already known to Mary. What caught her eye, however, was a secondary story. She raised the page for a closer read.
Who was intended victim?
Mary Questman volunteered
to take part in Sunday demo
•
OCT. 11, DUMONT, WI—Dumont County sheriff’s deputy Alex Kastle was off duty Sunday, but was hired to provide security at the investors’ event where Dr. Jason Ward was killed in a hyperbaric oxygen chamber.
Kastle later told the Register, “Everyone was surprised when they announced that Dr. Ward was taking Mary Questman’s place as the guinea pig today.”
Mary Questman, known to all Dumonters as the community’s leading arts patron and philanthropist, had expressed interest in the FlabberGas enterprise and had volunteered to participate in the event. The reason for the last-minute switch was not immediately known.
Kastle asked a reporter, “Can you imagine what might’ve happened if Mrs. Questman went through with this, as planned? Now they’re talking murder. It makes you wonder who the killer was really after.”
Deputy Kastle is the only opponent seeking to unseat Sheriff Thomas Simms in next month’s election. When asked if Kastle thought the suspicious death could have an impact on voting, he replied, “Well, the clock is now ticking, isn’t it? The loss of Mrs. Questman would’ve been a terrible blow to the whole town. Sheriff Simms needs to get to the bottom of this. The election will be a referendum on his ability to wrap it up fast.”
That’s a tall order. Early voting begins two weeks from today.
When asked for comment from the Register’s editorial board, publisher emeritus Barret Logan replied by e-mail, saying, “While we make every effort to give all candidates equal consideration for our endorsement in local elections, we have been solidly impressed by the professionalism Sheriff Simms has brought to the office. That said, this disturbing development is indeed a new wrinkle that deserves ongoing scrutiny from the editorial board and voters alike.”
“Incredible,” Mary mumbled. “I can’t believe it.”
Believe it.
Mary lowered the newspaper. Mister Puss was sitting on the table. She said, “I thought you were sleeping in this morning.”
It was a cat nap.
“Very funny.”
And I’m hungry.
“Yes, Your Majesty.” Mary had picked up his nickname from Berta.
Poor Berta, thought Mary as she rose from the table to prepare the cat’s breakfast. Her housekeeper had Mondays off, but Mary had to wonder if Berta would appear as scheduled the next day—or would she be locked up somewhere, held as a suspect for killing Dr. Ward? The very notion was ridiculous, of course. Mary had known Berta for at least twenty years, and while she could be a bit difficult at times, they had seen each other through many rough patches, particularly when their husbands had died—first Mary’s, then Berta’s.
Mister Puss circled Mary’s ankles, purring, while she stood at the counter, cutting up chunks of beef tenderloin, carefully arranging each morsel in the cat’s bowl, just the way he liked it. This ritual always gave her pleasure, but she fretted over Berta’s predicament. It certainly hadn’t looked good yesterday when everyone found her just outside the unlocked door to the clinic’s gas closet—smoking marijuana and having a gay old time with Glee Savage.
Poor Glee, thought Mary. Her byline didn’t appear in that morning’s paper; she wasn’t even mentioned in the stories about the event that she had gone to cover. Was she now in trouble? Making things worse, Dr. Frumpkin had threatened to sue the Register over her last story. Was her job in jeopardy? Mary considered Glee one of her closest friends. None of this would have happened if Mary hadn’t been pushing “the FlabberGas enterprise,” as the paper had called it.
Mister Puss watched with hungry eyes as Mary lowered the bowl to the floor. He then began devouring the bloody beef. Mary always enjoyed the rapture of his eating, the way his purr transformed to a soft, gurgling roar, but it brought her no pleasure that morning as she fretted over Sheriff Simms.
Poor Thomas, thought Mary. He was the kindest, most dedicated lawman she’d ever known in Dumont, and she’d been there her whole life, except the years she’d spent away at school. He deserved to be reelected. Of course he’d be reelected—or so everyone had thought until this mess developed, a mess partly of her own making.
While Mister Puss continued eating his breakfast, Mary sat at the table again and resumed her litany of woes.
Poor Sarah Frumpkin Ward, thought Mary. Widowed so young. And before her very eyes.
Poor little Olivia, thought Mary. Fatherless at such a tender age.
Poor Dr. Frumpkin, thought Mary. His FlabberGas dreams were surely doomed.
Poor me, thought Mary. Deputy Kastle had raised a point she hadn’t considered. Was Dr. Ward’s demise intended for Mary herself? Good heavens, she didn’t have an enemy in the world. Did she?
Mister Puss ambled over from his empty bowl and looked up at Mary. She patted her knees. He jumped into her lap. She kneaded the back of his neck. Purring loudly, he stretched up to her shoulder, then brought his chin to her ear.
What’s wrong?
“I’m just so worried. Worried about everyone.” She told him what had happened at the clinic and detailed her concerns.
Who was there?
“Everyone who was here at the house on Friday. At least I think so.” Mary paused. “No, actually, the little girl wasn’t at the clinic yesterday. Olivia.”
There’s something wrong with that sasspot.
Mary chortled. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
She broke a glass and hid the pieces. Behind the big chair.
“Well, accidents happen. She’s a child.” Mary had no time to fret over broken glassware; she had murder on her mind. “Ughhh,” she wondered aloud, “what am I going to do?”
Talk to your friend.
“Which friend?” She had hundreds.
Brody. Ask him to help.
“Of course,” said Mary, raising her fingers to her lips—she’d just been thinking of Brody. A year earlier, her friend Walter Zakarian, the rug man who sometimes served as her escort at charity galas, had run into some trouble resulting in injuries that might have killed him. He was reluctant to pursue the matter, but Brody Norris stepped in and helped Sheriff Simms figure it out. And now, Brody was so close to everyone involved in the FlabberGas mess, he just might be able to help again.
Mary gave Mister Puss an adoring look—his suggestion was nothing short of brilliant. She thanked him with a hug, then set him on the floor.
Mister Puss sat watching, purring, as Mary stepped to the phone.
Chapter 5
The phone rang. At home Monday morning, I was trying to ease into the week
with a second cup of coffee, but perplexed by a story in the Dumont Daily Register.
“I’ll get it, Brody,” said Marson from across the great room of the loft.
“Thanks, sweets.” I was in no mood for distraction, wanting to finish the story I was reading. And I couldn’t believe my own eyes.
Deputy Alex Kastle, that conniving alt-right opportunist, had not only gone on record suggesting that someone had tried to kill Mary Questman, but had also gone nuclear on Sheriff Simms, reframing the election as a referendum on the sheriff’s ability to bring someone to justice—in just two weeks. And the paper’s doddering ex-publisher, speaking for the editorial board, had all but agreed.
Fuming, I smacked the Register down on the kitchen island and shoved it away from me, knocking my cup of coffee and sloshing half of it on the newsprint. As I grabbed a wad of paper towels, Marson headed toward me with the phone.
“Just a moment,” he said into the handset. “I think you’d better ask him yourself.” Passing it to me, he said, “It’s Mary.” Then he took over for me, cleaning up the coffee.
After greeting each other, I said to Mary, “I totally agree—it was horrible. I’m so sorry Kastle dragged you into this. And I’m appalled that he stooped to the ‘gotcha’ mentality of using this against Simms.”
“On top of all that,” Mary said through the phone, “I’m just sick with worry over Berta. And Glee, too.” Then her tone brightened. “But Mister Puss just gave me the most lovely suggestion.”
“Oh? Really?”
After we hung up, Marson asked, “What was that all about?”
I hesitated to tell him. “Mary thinks I should reprise my role as amateur sidekick to Sheriff Simms.” With a sardonic grin, I added, “It was Mister Puss’s idea.”
Marson nodded gravely. “A clever animal, that one—wise beyond his years. I was about to suggest it myself.”
Reluctantly, I phoned Simms.
He invited me to his office.
I drove downtown and parked near our Miles & Norris architectural firm on First Avenue. The sheriff’s headquarters was only a few blocks away, adjacent to the county courthouse, so I left my car and walked. When I arrived outside Simms’s office, a deputy said, “He’s expecting you.” She opened the door, then closed it behind me. Both Simms and a woman I didn’t recognize stood to greet me as I entered.
“We were just getting started,” said Simms. “Brody, I’d like you to meet Heather Vance, our coroner and medical examiner. And Heather, this is Brody Norris.”
As we shook hands, she said, “Delighted to meet you, Brody. I’ve heard a lot about you.” She winked at the sheriff.
I said, “My pleasure—is it Dr. Vance?”
“Yes, but Heather’s fine.” She was blond and pretty, surprisingly young, thirty or so. I would have expected someone who was not only older, but more wizened, less vibrant, perhaps wearing a black rubber apron. But Heather looked sharp and lively in a chipper yellow skirt and jacket.
Having spent most of my life in California, I didn’t know much about medical examiners in Wisconsin, except that the office was independent of any police agency or hospital. I also knew they were responsible for investigating “reportable” deaths—and I had no doubt whatever that Jason Ward’s untimely passing fell into that category.
Heather said to me, “According to Thomas, you’re here to observe?”
“Uh, yeah,” I said, feeling stupid, “I guess so.”
Simms laughed and pulled an extra chair over to his desk. “This investigation has barely begun; it’s still evolving. Have a seat, Brody.”
I sat in front of the desk, next to Heather, as Simms returned to his desk chair. He suggested, “Maybe you should start over, Heather.”
“Of course.” She turned to face me. “Testing is still under way, and definitive results always take longer than we’d like, but I think we’re on the right track. The victim died while undergoing a hyperbaric oxygen treatment, and there at the scene, immediately afterward, his wife floated the theory that some gas other than oxygen might have been introduced to the pressure chamber.”
Simms said, “Right, I asked Sarah for her best guess as to what might have happened, and that’s what she said.”
“And it makes sense,” agreed Heather. “The victim was thought to be in perfect health. He apparently had undergone previous oxygen treatments without incident. And there was no observed malfunction of the equipment itself. The switched-gas theory would be consistent with all of that.”
I asked, “So if it wasn’t oxygen, what was the gas that killed him?”
Heather all but glowed with the love of her work. She slid to the edge of her seat, explaining, “Don’t know yet. But my bet? Nitrous oxide.”
“Laughing gas,” said the sheriff.
“Right. Nitrous oxide is a common medical gas, typically used as an analgesic and mild anesthetic in dentistry and surgery. Most any surgical clinic would have it on hand—and one of the regular practitioners at Associated Surgery Center is an oral surgeon.”
I asked, “But is it poisonous?”
“Not in the classic ‘literary’ sense,” said Heather. “It’s nothing like, say, cyanide, which attacks the system within seconds and causes near-instant seizures, cardiac arrest, and death. However, if nitrous—or any gas, for that matter—completely replaces the oxygen you need to breathe, you die of asphyxiation.”
“And I presume,” said Simms, “the conditions in a small, closed, pressurized capsule would favor that outcome.”
“Sounds like the perfect setup.”
I asked, “But wouldn’t the victim be aware that something awful was happening? I mean, yesterday, during the demonstration, Jason never showed the least sense of alarm. He looked just fine—until he didn’t.”
“Right,” said Simms. “We saw it all. Jason was sort of clowning around in there, and then he went to sleep—with a smile on his face.”
Heather reminded us, “Nitrous is very well known for its euphoric effect, hence the common parlance, ‘laughing gas.’ Plus, nitrous oxide is colorless and odorless, just like ordinary air. Combine that with the euphoria, and the victim probably wouldn’t even notice anything was awry before passing out—and then suffocating.”
“Good grief,” I said, reflexively raising my hand to my throat. “Poor Jason.”
Simms opened a notebook and clicked his pen. “So then,” he said, “as I see it, we’re three steps away from knowing if Jason Ward was a victim of death by laughing gas. First, we need to determine if nitrous oxide was stored at the clinic; that’s an easy yes-or-no, a matter of simple fact. Second, we need to find out if anything was tampered with in the clinic’s gas closet; it was fully secured after yesterday’s incident, and I have an evidence team heading over there even as we speak. Third and finally, we need to know if our theory is consistent with the cause of death as determined by the postmortem.”
“Right,” said Heather. “The postmortem is the clincher. If Jason Ward died of asphyxiation by nitrous oxide, that will be revealed by testing. As to how and why it was done”—she stood—“that’s up to you guys.”
Simms walked us out to the lobby. He thanked Heather for her insights and held the door for her as she left. He watched as she moved down to the street, then he turned to me, asking, “Got time for a little walk?”
“Sure, Thomas.”
We stepped outside; Simms led the way. Rather than heading out to the street, we turned at a driveway that led along the side of the building to a garage and maintenance area in back. A clearing among a few straggly trees contained a couple of metal picnic tables that seemed intended for staffers on break. No one was there, but cigarette butts littered the matted, patchy grass.
Simms strolled to the farther table and gestured for me to sit. Then he sat next to me, looking up into the trees, as if studying something that I couldn’t see. “Did you ever want something so bad you could taste it, Brody?”
“Many times.” I had want
ed to become an architect. I had wanted to be accepted at a great school to prepare myself for that career. I had wanted my first marriage to bring us a lifetime of happiness, but that one didn’t work out. And now I wanted the same thing in my shared life with Marson. I told Simms, “We all have dreams.”
He still gazed into the trees. “Know what I always dreamed about?”
I didn’t answer because I wasn’t sure, but I had an idea.
He continued, “There were lots of dreams, I guess, but they had a common theme. Growing up black still has its challenges—big time—but forty years ago, it was way worse, even though that was more than a decade after the Civil Rights Act. So my dreams simply focused on getting past all that.”
“Thomas.” I touched his arm. “My first husband, back in California, he was black.”
With a quizzical look, he said, “Really? I never knew that.”
“Now you do. His name was Lloyd Washington. He was an architect. Still is.”
“That part—I knew that.”
“And before Lloyd and I went into business together, he’d had a long teaching career at UCLA.”
“Sounds like a smart guy.”
I told Simms, “So I don’t mean to sound presumptuous, but in a sense, I know where you’re coming from. Lloyd and I had many deep talks about this. And you’re a lot like him—a consummate professional who started from square one, then had to prove himself every inch of the way.”
With a soft laugh, Simms told me, “I guess you get it, then.” He stood, looking into the trees, then turned to me. “May sound corny, but my dream? Just the basic ‘American dream,’ right? Terrific wife, great kid, upward mobility—don’t have a dog yet.”
FlabberGassed Page 8