Mister Puss wasn’t purring anymore. At the sight of the child, he slunk backwards a few steps, then turned to retreat to the rear of the loft, where he tiptoed up the stairs to the mezzanine. Olivia watched him with a devilish stare, like some demon-baby in a bad movie. I could hear the background screech of violins, shrill and ominous—it was a fertile afternoon for hearing things.
Sarah didn’t look well. I hugged her, saying, “I know it’s been rough. How are you holding up?”
“Each day seems to get a little better—a little, for a while—and then everything comes rushing back. It doesn’t seem real, like being adrift in a bad dream.”
“KITTY?” yelled Olivia, moving a few steps toward the spiral stairs.
“Honey,” said Sarah, “please bring it down a notch.” Turning to me, she explained, “Since Jason died, everything’s been such a mess. I’ve been trying to figure out a new routine for Olivia’s after-school hours, before the clinic closes. It may sound like a minor item, but trust me, it’s just another iron in the fire.” Her head snapped to the girl: “Stay away from those stairs.” Then to me: “I apologize for bringing her along, but I just picked her up at school, and there’s something I need to discuss with you.”
“She’s welcome here anytime,” I lied, closing the front door. Then I led Sarah over to the dining table and pulled out a chair for her. “Can I get you anything?”
She shook her head.
So I sat across from her, asking, “What’s on your mind, Sarah?” I watched her daughter poking around, nosing into this and that.
“It’s about the clinic,” she said.
“The surgical clinic—where it happened?”
“No, Brody. The FlabberGas clinic, which you’re designing. If you’ve been wondering if those plans have now been derailed, the answer is yes. I talked to Dad about it last night, and he agrees—we’re pulling the plug.”
“I guess I’m not surprised.” In fact, I was relieved. From the corner of my eye, however, I spied Olivia approaching the staircase. She then sat on the bottom step, watching us.
Sarah continued, “So I wanted to make it official: you can close the file on that bright idea. FlabberGas—what were we thinking? When you have a chance, figure out your time, send us your bill, and we’ll make it right.”
With a shrug, I told her, “I worked on it for only a couple of days, and I had fun with it. I truly did. So let’s just call it even.”
She reached across the table to pat my hand. “That’s too generous. But thank you.”
“If I can give you one less thing to worry about, I’m happy to do it.” I glanced toward the staircase again and saw Olivia traipse up a few steps. When she saw me looking, she stopped. I didn’t want her going up there, so I caught Sarah’s eye and jerked my head toward her daughter.
Sarah fired a warning shot: “Behave, honey.”
Olivia struck a casual pose, lolling against the railing, just passing the time of day.
Sarah sat back, exhaling a weary sigh. “Tomorrow’s the funeral—getting that behind us, maybe that’ll help.”
“I understand. Closure.”
“Sure, that—but also being done with the coroner and the uncertain timing—that should help restore some sense of normalcy, or at least the ‘new normalcy.’ One way or another, we need to get the practice up and running again.”
“You’ll get there, Sarah. It’ll take time, though. Everyone’s rooting for you.”
“Thank you.” With a quiet laugh, she added, “It seems I keep thanking you—you’ve been great, Brody.”
“You and your dad showed plenty of faith in me, with your project. The least I can do now is lend some moral support.” I heard the patter of someone’s little feet climbing a few more of the metal stairs.
Sarah said, “You’ve given way more than moral support. Sheriff Simms tells us you’ve been helpful in moving the investigation along.”
“I’ve tried. But he’s the pro. And now that things are wrapped up with the medical examiner, the investigation should proceed more quickly.” I heard Olivia’s voice from the mezzanine, jabbering softly to the cat, as I told Sarah, “Just this morning, Simms began focusing on a new lead—he says it ‘checks all the boxes.’”
“Really?” She seemed distracted. “I hadn’t heard.”
I waffled, telling her, “It’s still a theory, but a strong one. It could have been someone who was right there when it happened.” I didn’t want to go so far as to name Deputy Kastle—loose lips could sink more than ships—and in fact, I was not yet sold on Kastle’s guilt. So I concluded, “Simms has a lot riding on this. He’ll figure it out. He’s getting close.”
Sarah had listened with evident consternation, which blossomed into an expression of full panic as her gaze drifted up beyond my shoulder to the heights of the loft. “Olivia!” she shouted. “What do you think you’re doing?”
I spun in my chair and looked up.
“Nine lives—nine lives—nine lives,” chanted Olivia as she dangled Mister Puss out over the mezzanine’s railing. If he squirmed, or if she simply let go, he’d fall a good sixteen feet to the polished concrete floor. Although I knew cats were perceived as highly resilient, I was sure they weren’t designed for that kind of abuse.
Sarah stood. “That’s just a saying, honey. Cats don’t have nine lives. You wouldn’t want to hurt him, would you?”
The brat shook her head strongly. Mister Puss swung like a pendulum. He eyed me with a frozen, glassy stare that seemed to ask, Well, aren’t you going to do something?
I stood. “Olivia? I think you should hold on to Mister Puss and—very carefully—just back away from the railing, and then set him down nicely on the bed, where it’s soft, so he can take his afternoon nap.”
She glared at me with suspicion.
Sarah told her daughter, “Honey, please listen to Brody and do what he says—please put the cat on the bed.” The panic in her voice, the pleading, must have gotten through to the kid more effectively than my sweet talk; Olivia backed safely away.
Sarah and I stepped to each other and threw our arms around each other, shaken and trembling.
Having delivered her message that there would be no worldwide chain of FlabberGas clinics—or even a fabulous butterfly-roofed prototype—and having averted a crisis stemming from her daughter’s fascination with Mister Puss’s mortality, Sarah Frumpkin Ward hustled her hellion out to the street, pausing in the doorway to tell me, “I’m so sorry, Brody. She’s such a handful—but she’s been much better lately, believe it or not.”
I had my doubts. “No harm done,” I said.
Tinkerbell stomped her green shoes on the pavement. “But he tried to bite me.” She showed us the back of her hand, supposedly wounded, but I saw no blood, no marks. If Mister Puss had nipped her, she had surely been too rough with him.
Sarah and I hugged good-bye. Then they left.
Stepping inside, I closed the door and strolled toward the kitchen, keeping an eye on the stairs, wondering when the cat might reappear.
I rinsed the bowl that had held the tenderloin and tucked it away in the dishwasher, leaving no evidence for Marson that I had allowed Mister Puss to eat his meal on the countertop, which would have prompted an obsessive round of sanitizing. Then I tidied up around the sink, put away the towel, and turned away from the kitchen, stepping toward the computer.
And there was Mister Puss, sitting near my chair, looking up at me as I approached.
I took him in my arms and set him in my lap as I sat. “Poor little guy,” I said, rubbing his cheeks, which caused the instant eruption of a deep, loud purr. “Such a scare you had. But you were brave.”
He nuzzled my chest, then stretched his head toward my face. His nose touched mine for a moment before the soft fur of his chin slid to the opening of my ear. The drone of his purr evoked a distant time, a drowsy place, somewhere far away. My pulse relaxed. My tensions faded. I said, “She’s gone. She won’t hurt you.”
> There’s something wrong with that sasspot.
I laughed. Taking our imagined dialogue one step further, I asked, “Did you try to bite her?”
She tried to put her finger in me.
Whoa—I shook my head—I did not need to hear that.
“You didn’t hear a thing,” I reminded myself aloud while setting Mister Puss on the floor.
Chapter 11
Tuesdays always strike me as a “nothing” kind of day, far from Friday, let alone Saturday, stuck in the shank of the work week—nose to the grindstone, all business. But that Tuesday in late October was anything but typical. Everyone we knew, it seemed, would find little time for work that morning because we all would attend Dr. Jason Ward’s funeral, which began at ten. And hours before that, when Marson and I awoke at the loft and poured a first cup of coffee, our surreal Tuesday began with an added surprise, a distressing turn. Opening the Dumont Daily Register, we were greeted by yet another salvo in the drumbeat of Deputy Kastle’s nonsensical election rhetoric.
Only six days until early voting
Deputy Kastle gaining momentum
against silent Sheriff Simms
Compiled from Register staff reports
•
OCT. 19, DUMONT, WI—Within a week, voters in Dumont County will have begun voting in a sheriff’s election that was previously thought an easy win for incumbent Thomas Simms.
Many observers have been surprised, however, by the recent surge of support toward his opponent, Deputy Alex Kastle. At a rally on Sunday evening, Kastle tried a new pitch on an enthusiastic crowd, telling them, “I will never lie to you. Let me be your voice.”
On Monday, the Register sent its reporting team back to the local Walmart to sample the mood of shoppers in the aisles. Again and again, likely voters said of Kastle, “He tells it like it is.”
When Simms was reached by the Register and asked for a response to the campaign’s increasingly populist rhetoric, the sitting sheriff offered no comment, stating only, “I have a job to do. We have a murder to solve.”
Ironically, it was the October 10 death of Dr. Jason Ward, now being investigated as a homicide, that may dash the sheriff’s reelection hopes …
Marson flicked the paper aside with quiet restraint. After pouring us both another cup of coffee, he set down the pot. “This election story is starting to stink. I could use some fresh air. How about you, kiddo?”
So we put ourselves together and spiffed ourselves up and left the loft about an hour before the funeral. Marson got behind the wheel of his Range Rover, driving us not to church, but out past the edge of town, where our dreams for the perfect house had just begun to take shape above an isolated stream in a grove of birches.
There had been some construction activity the prior week, mostly pilings and a retaining wall below the upper plateau of the waterfall. It didn’t yet resemble a house, or even a structure, but it represented a sturdy foundation—concrete and steel—that would anchor not only our home, but our joined lives.
Marson switched off the engine. We lowered the windows, admitting the cool morning air, which still carried the dusty, limy scent of setting cement. The building site was too muddy for us to be tramping around in our funeral clothes, so we just sat there in the SUV, where we could gaze out at the view while enjoying the rustle and chatter of the birds. We didn’t speak much, as there was little to say. We held hands for a while. And then, feeling refreshed by the quietude and secure in our future, we knew it was time to return to the precarious reality of the day.
Marson revved up the Range Rover and drove us back to town, to the aftermath of a murder.
St. Alban’s Episcopal Church fronted the historic downtown commons, across the park from Dumont’s handsome neoclassical Carnegie library. While the library was foursquare and stone, hunkering solidly to the earth, the church was more modest, of weathered yellow brick, with neo-Gothic arches and a steeple reaching for the vivid October sky. Its double doors were painted brightest crimson, which glowed that morning amid a golden flutter of foliage from the surrounding trees.
I had never been inside the church, and I didn’t know much about the parish, except that it was well over a hundred years old and that the Questman family—the family of Mary’s deceased husband, Quincy Questman—had been among its founding members.
As Marson and I walked the two blocks from where we’d parked (we hadn’t even bothered to try the church lot, which was jammed beyond capacity), he explained, “St. Alban’s has always been known as Dumont’s ‘society’ church, but the moneyed class has been dying off, and so has the membership. It’s a lovely old building, but it’s seen better days.”
A hearse was parked at the curb in front of the church, but otherwise, parking on that side of the street had been blocked off with police signs. As we joined the flow of mourners who filed toward the entrance, the sounds of a choir drifted on the crisp autumn breeze with a subtle tang of incense. Mounting the front steps, I noticed that their limestone treads had been worn shallow by a second century of passing feet. Above the doors, an arched window of stained glass depicted the church’s patron saint. Who, I wondered, was St. Alban? He wore a red cape and carried a dagger. Or was it a crucifix?
Having been raised a heathen, I was now on shaky ground.
When we stepped inside, I paused to close my eyes and let them adjust to the dim light of the vestibule. When I opened them, they stung from the incense, which had been laid on thick in anticipation of the requiem rites. The choir was in full voice, belting out another verse of some proper English hymn. To my ear, they all sounded alike, filled with sheep and glory and “Thou”s and “Thine”s.
We moved through the swinging doors and into the nave, past the holy water stoup, and because the church was nearly filled, we decided to grab seats off to the side, in a back pew.
Settling in, I glanced about and got my bearings. I saw Dr. Francis Frumpkin, Sarah Frumpkin Ward, little Olivia, and presumably some other family members, unknown to me, in a front pew. I wondered what Olivia had worn that day, but couldn’t tell from my vantage point. Across the center aisle from them, Mary Questman sat in the first pew with Berta. I whispered to Marson, “Look, there’s Mary—she got a front-row seat.”
Marson whispered back, “I assume the Questmans popped for a family pew eons ago. When St. Alban’s needs a new boiler, they know where their bread is buttered.”
The choir was assembled in a stall to the side of the altar, led by a tall man in a lacy white surplice. Even from a distance, he struck me as uncommonly good-looking, no older than thirty. His flowing sleeves wagged as he directed the choir, mostly children, all of them in shorter surplices worn over red cassocks. It was easy to spot little Tommy Simms among them, conspicuous among his Waspish brethren. I also spotted Tommy’s parents, the sheriff and his wife, who sat a few rows behind Mary.
I nudged Marson. “Hey, who’s the choir guy?”
“You noticed, eh? Not a clue. Maybe we’ll run into him later.”
“I just have a hunch …”
Marson suppressed a sputter of a laugh. Feigning shock, he whispered, “Keep your salacious thoughts to yourself, young man. This is a house of worship.”
Sitting at the end of the pew, I felt someone rudely bump my shoulder from the aisle. I turned to discover the hip of Glee Savage. Looking up, I told her, “Morning, doll. Need a place to sit?”
“Thanks, sweetie. Shove over.” She slid in next to us, giving me a smooch and then leaning across me to peck Marson. I had to duck away from the swooping brim of her enormous black hat.
She took a steno pad out of her purse and began writing notes.
I said, “It seems you’re back in good graces at the Register.”
“Hope so. I had a column this morning. But this”—she indicated the throng assembled in the church—“this could be the social event of the year.”
“Good to see you in your element again,” I said, “even at a funeral.”
; She paused to touch my arm. “I can’t thank you enough, Brody—setting everything right with Sheriff Simms. It’s ridiculous to think I’d ever stoop to murder. And I feel just awful for poor Sarah and little Olivia.” Glee then leaned close to tell me from the side of her mouth, “Although I can’t say I feel much sympathy for Dr. Frumpkin. What a pompous blowhard—he deserved a bit of humbling.”
I really wished that she would stop qualifying her statements about what had happened. I was perfectly content to accept her expressions of innocence, but then, each time, she had a habit of tacking on an afterthought that made me question my charitable conclusions. Now, though, those doubts had ended—she was in the clear. I hoped.
The church got quiet. The organ began heaving through a dirge as everyone stood to watch the processional, led by an aged priest who had difficulty walking. Glee told me, “That’s Charles Sterling, rector of St. Alban’s. He’s been here forever—hope he makes it through the next hour.”
He was accompanied by a phalanx of clerics who carried assorted liturgical whatnot. One of them swung a smoking censer in showy cartwheels, further gassing the crowd, who responded with a wheezing chorus of coughs.
Bringing up the rear was Dr. Jason Ward himself, or rather, his casket, draped in white. Dahr Ahmadi was one of the pallbearers, representing Dr. Frumpkin’s practice. I didn’t know the others; perhaps they were members of Jason’s extended family.
When the casket was in position at the head of the aisle and the clerics had taken their places in the sanctuary, the congregation sat. The service began. And I tuned out.
We all had our reasons for being there that day. Some truly mourned the loss of Jason, as their lives had been forever changed by his death. Others may not have felt the loss directly, but they were there to support and respect those who grieved. Still others may have had no connection to those touched by the tragedy, but they were drawn there by the news, as members of an affected community. Others, just curious onlookers.
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