Boy Toy

by Michael Craft

Neil raised both hands, a gentle gesture meant to appease both of us. “It’s a sticky question, yes, but we did talk it through, all three of us, and we concluded that it would be better not to cancel the party. Obviously, Jason’s death is shocking and unexpected. But the Players Guild isn’t canceling the run of Teen Play—‘the show must go on’—and contrary to that spirit, canceling the party would only appear grim. Besides, the party’s been planned for weeks, a lot of preparation has gone into it, and it’ll give the cast and crew an opportunity to meet outside the theater and talk through their feelings about the tragedy. It won’t be exactly the festive evening we had planned, but it will be good for the kids.” Neil looked from Barb’s face to mine. “Right?”

  “Right,” I conceded. “Plus”—and this was really the strongest argument, I thought, for forging ahead with our plans—“the party will give Thad the opportunity to act as host, show off a bit, and curry favor with his friends.”

  “Especially those ‘friends,’ ” added Barb, “who seem all too eager to believe that he was somehow involved with Jason’s death.” She’d pinpointed the core issue, and we fell silent for a moment, lamenting the circumstances that now cast Thad in such a dark light.

  It had been a chilling experience backstage the previous night, watching the tide turn so quickly. One minute, Thad was a hero, the unflappable young actor who had just led his troupe to a triumphant opening; the next minute, when news broke of Jason’s death, he was seen by some as a scheming, murderous understudy. None of us considered for even an instant that Thad could have any connection to Jason’s death, and I had no reason to feel that the official investigation would ever focus on him. I did, however, harbor a nascent fear that Thad could suffer some serious emotional damage from the suspicions of his adolescent peers. It was important to resolve quickly the questions surrounding Jason’s death and, in doing so, to restore Thad’s good name before smoke implied fire.

  “He seemed okay, didn’t he, when we talked before bed?” Though I’d been there, and though I’d answered this question to my own satisfaction—repeatedly—I still needed Neil’s reassurance.

  “He was fine, Mark. If anything, he found the irony of the situation sort of funny.” Glancing at the clock, Neil added, “He isn’t losing any sleep over it.”

  Though Neil’s words were meant to allay my fears, they succeeded in raising a new worry: Was Thad’s reaction to Jason’s demise too cavalier? Or was his nonchalance merely a cover for deeper feelings that he preferred not to air?

  Barb opened the fridge, grabbed a diet cola, and joined us at the table. Popping the can, she said, “Look, guys. Thad’ll be fine. He’s at an impressionable age, but he’s a good kid, with two wonderful dads. He’ll pull through this, and so will you.” She tasted the soda, then added, “Jason’s autopsy will clear everything up, and the whole mess will be history. It could be over by nightfall.”

  “Thanks, Barb,” Neil told her. “I hope you’re right.”

  She snorted. “Of course I’m right.”

  Watching her slug pop from the can, I offered, “Can I get you a glass?”

  She dismissed my offer with a flip of her hand. “Just something to wash.”

  I sighed—not a sigh of exasperation, but resolution. “Well, then, the party’s on. There’s plenty left to do, I’m sure. How can I help?”

  Barb flipped her hand again. “I’m doing food. Neil’s doing flowers and all the froufrou stuff. You, Mark, just go to your office, print your papers, and solve your crimes.” She stood. “But leave your checkbook.”

  “Now there’s a familiar request.”

  She patted my shoulder. “That’s because you do it so well, hon.” And she left the room, stepping into her nearby quarters, adjacent to the kitchen.

  “Speaking of crimes,” said Neil, reluctant to broach the topic, “what do you think? Was it a crime?” He rose from the table, got the coffeepot from the counter, and returned to fill our cups.

  I sighed—not resolution this time, but frustration. “Good question. I hope it wasn’t a crime. I hope Jason simply succumbed to some serious, undiagnosed illness, its symptoms having masqueraded as a cold. Right now, I’d bet on natural causes. If there was foul play, there was no immediate evidence of it. Besides, I can’t imagine who’d have sufficient motive to kill Jason—he was conceited, yes, but hardly diabolical. In any event, this town doesn’t need another murder hanging over it.”

  Pointedly, Neil added, “Neither does our quiet, happy household here on Prairie Street.” With a grin, he looked over the edge of his cup at me, then drank.

  Sitting back, I drummed my fingers on the newspaper there on the table. Rhetorically, I asked, “What would it take to kill a kid, to slay him in his prime? If it was murder, it’s a particularly loathsome case.”

  “The classic murder motives,” Neil rattled off, “are greed, passion, and revenge. Take your pick.”

  “Don’t forget the motiveless murder—the kill for the thrill—the proverbial ‘perfect crime.’ ”

  Neil shuddered. “Let’s not go there, okay? I would prefer to believe that we left the psychopaths and criminally insane back in the big, dirty metropolis.”

  “Chicago’s not dirty,” I told him in a mock scolding tone.

  “Correct. But you know what I mean: small-town Wisconsin hardly strikes me as a breeding ground for dementia.” Neil raised the mug in both hands to drink from it, but decided he’d had enough, setting it down.

  Not quite joking, I suggested, “What about Mica Thrush?”

  Not quite laughing, he conceded, “She is a weird one.”

  “Those were the very words used to describe her by Deputy Jim Johnson, first to arrive at the scene last night.”

  “Plus, she’s heavily into ‘gothic’ chic—black clothes, black lips and nails, the works. Do you suppose Mica has an unnatural fascination with death?”

  “Last night she did. You should have seen her toying with the corpse—in the very room where her father was bemoaning the fact that she was now his sole heir.”

  “Whew.” Neil leaned forward, resting on his elbows. “This might be the easiest murder case we’ve ever solved.” He laughed.

  So did I. “Easy, Watson. As far as we know, there hasn’t even been a murder.”

  A loud, shrill squawking noise interrupted us—it sounded like a stricken duck. Then Barb broke into rude guffaws, entering the kitchen with her clarinet mouthpiece poised before her lips. With her other hand, she carried a black leather case, a foot or so long, placing it on the table in front of us.

  “That was lovely,” I said dryly. “I’m so glad you made the investment in a really good instrument.”

  “Don’t get smart. It was worth every penny. I’m just a little rusty and could use a few lessons.” She snapped open the case, revealing the various sections of the clarinet, each nested in a velvety, contoured compartment. Unscrewing the metal ligature from the mouthpiece, she removed the reed, then tucked everything back in the case. “But”—her tone had suddenly turned ingratiating—“I could really use someplace to practice, someplace out of the way where I won’t bother people.”

  “How ‘bout the cellar,” I suggested, managing to keep a straight face.

  Neil cuffed me, telling Barb, “Just take one of the spare bedrooms. There’s plenty of space upstairs—glad you can make use of it.”

  It was a good suggestion. The house had been designed for twice the number of its current inhabitants, and the second floor had five bedrooms. (On top of which, literally, was a third-floor great room, a wonderfully mysterious vaulted space that carried rich memories from my childhood.) The largest of the second-floor bedrooms, originally my uncle Edwin’s, was now occupied by Neil and me. My aunt Peggy’s lovely old room was set up as a permanent guestroom. Thad had one of the smaller rooms, which left two others. One of these was essentially a storeroom now; the other had served as a temporary workroom for Neil before he’d permanently moved his practice and opened the downtow
n office. Barb was welcome to either of these extra rooms.

  “Thanks, guys,” she told us, using both hands to simultaneously tweak one of my cheeks and one of Neil’s—an annoying habit, though well meant. “I can’t wait to set up. I’ll practice in my spare time, promise, when no one’s around.”

  “Fine,” I told her, “but don’t worry about bothering us—there’s nothing wrong with a little music in the house. When do we get to hear you play something?”

  “Maybe never.” She splashed both hands in the air. “I’m in serious need of lessons, remedial lessons. Where to start?”

  Neil asked, “Have you lined up a teacher yet?”

  “Well, no”—hand to hip—“that’s the point!”

  I got up from the table and crossed to the sink to rinse my cup. “This is a little out of my league, but you might want to talk to Whitney Greer.”

  Barb turned to me with a blank expression. “Who’s she?”

  “He,” I corrected her, “is manager of the Dumont Symphony Orchestra.”

  Barb laughed. “No offense, guys, but he sounds like a hairdresser.”

  “Ahhh,” said Neil, enlightened, “he’ll be at the party tonight. That’s a great suggestion, Mark. I’ll bet he could connect Barb with some fine clarinetists.”

  “Hold on,” said Barb, “I’m still a few steps behind. This is a theater party tonight, right? How’d this Whitney guy get in the picture?”

  Neil explained, “Both the Dumont Players Guild and the Dumont Symphony are amateur groups, but they need some professional help. Neither organization can afford a full-time manager, so they ‘share’ Whitney Greer, who serves as executive director of both groups. He has no artistic control, but he—”

  “Yeah, yeah,” she interrupted, “I get it—the executive director is the paid help who minds the books and generally takes care of stuff. So this ‘Mr. Whitney’ is the orchestra guy too, huh? Maybe I should have a talk with him.” She paused, looking suddenly wary. “I forgot about the Dumont Symphony Orchestra—haven’t heard them in twenty years. Are they any good?”

  “Very,” I assured her. “Oh, I know—community orchestras are often maligned, and they sometimes deserve it, but the Dumont Symphony is a notch or two above the norm. They’re over fifty years old, with a decent endowment, and they’ve done a valiant job of maintaining professional performance standards. Granted, their season consists of only five or six concerts, but they’re good ones. The community orchestra, like the community theater, adds an important dimension to our quality of life here, and—”

  “Enough already,” she said, bumping me aside so she could load the dishwasher. “I got the picture. Sure, I’ll talk to Whitney. Thanks for the tip.”

  When she had finished in the kitchen, she wiped her hands, retrieved the clarinet case, and headed toward the front hall. “I’ll be upstairs. Since Roxanne’s coming early, I’d better get her room ready.”

  “Thanks,” we told her, and she was gone.

  Neil got up from the table, slung an arm around my waist, and strolled me to the kitchen window, looking out at the backyard, green and still under the hot-white summer sky. Idly, he let his head drop against my shoulder. “It was good of her to change her plans today.” The topic had shifted to Roxanne Exner, our Chicago lawyer friend.

  I turned my head to smell his hair. “I don’t think she had any plans, other than driving up to see Thad tonight. When I phoned her late last night and told her everything that had happened, she offered to get an early start today in order to be here by noon. We’ll meet with Doug Pierce at my office—unofficially, of course. He took a bit of convincing, but ultimately, Doug’s a friend as well as a cop.”

  “Good thing.” Neil stood straight, a curious look crossing his face. “Where’s Carl this time? It seems we never see him anymore.” He was referring to Carl Creighton, an Illinois deputy attorney general. Before Carl had gotten involved in politics two years earlier, he’d been a senior partner at the prestigious Chicago law firm where Roxanne worked—and where she and Carl had met, becoming romantically involved. When Carl had left the practice, he’d promoted Roxanne, and the firm now bore the name Kendall Yoshihara Exner.

  I answered Neil, “I assume Carl’s down in Springfield again. He’s been spending a lot of time there lately.”

  “Hope it’s not a strain on their relationship.”

  “Well…” I hesitated to continue. “She did mention that she needed to talk to us this weekend. Whatever it is, she was less than giddy about it.”

  “Damn.” Neil bit a nail. “Carl’s been good for Rox. I’ve known her since college, and she needs to settle down—emotionally, I mean.”

  “Surely you’re not hinting at the M-word.” My tone was facetious, but in fact, neither one of us believed Roxanne would ever marry. She was simply too independent, a quality I found at once admirable and maddening.

  Neil reminded me, “After two years of regularly sharing a bed with Carl, Rox still maintains her own apartment. No, marriage isn’t her style, but she needs Carl’s support, his maturity.”

  “Don’t tell Roxanne that. She’s sensitive about their age difference. She doesn’t want it looking as if she’s ‘dating Dad.’ ”

  Neil smirked. “They’re twelve years apart—he’s only fifty.”

  I hugged him from behind, resting my head on his shoulder. “I hope you’ll be that charitable a few years down the road when I’m ‘only fifty.’ ”

  He snorted. “Don’t count on it.”

  Then he turned around and kissed me, and I felt like a kid.

  Roxanne phoned me from her car that morning to say the weekend traffic out of the city was clogged with vacationers heading north; she was running later than she’d hoped. So we abandoned our plan for a casual lunch at the house, and she would drive directly to the Register’s offices for our meeting with Sheriff Pierce.

  “Will Lucille be there as well?” she asked.

  “She’s my managing editor,” I reminded her. “The Jason Thrush case could develop into a major story. I hope not, but the paper needs to be prepared. Why do you ask?”

  “No reason.” She laughed. “See you at two, Mark.”

  The reason Roxanne had asked about Lucille Haring is that neither woman was the “marrying type.” While this would seem to imply that they had a great deal in common, in fact they did not. For Roxanne, wedlock seemed unlikely owing to her sheer independence; Lucy was also the independent sort, but more to the point, she was a lesbian.

  They had first crossed paths two years earlier at a party Neil and I had hosted in our Chicago loft. Mixed signals (i.e., Roxanne’s new summer haircut, a short-cropped bob) led to faulty assumptions, and Lucy propositioned Roxanne. The misunderstanding was quickly righted, leaving Lucy mortified and Roxanne magnanimously forgiving—which only served to convince the mannish Miss Haring that there was still some shred of hope in her quest for the stylish Miss Exner.

  So when I climbed the stairs from the Register’s lobby that Saturday afternoon and entered the second-floor newsroom alone, it didn’t surprise me that Lucy looked up from the city desk, noting, “Oh. I thought you were bringing Roxanne.” The comment was spoken offhandedly, but its undertone was clearly crestfallen.

  Suppressing a smile, I told her, “She’s on her way, just running late,” and I slipped into my office to check my desk.

  I found the usual assortment of memos, circulation reports, story proposals, and mail, but nothing needed my attention over the weekend, so I sat back for a moment, surveying the quiet hubbub beyond the glass wall of my outer office. The newsroom was staffed by a skeleton crew that afternoon, as Saturdays are always slow for news, summers sleepier still. For once, I realized, I was not annoyed by this torpor. Both by training and by instinct, I had an itch for action—the point of newspapers, after all, is news—but just then I had little taste for the late-breaking or the hard-hitting. So far, Jason Thrush’s death, though tragic, was merely “unexplained.” There was n
o assumption of foul play. And I wanted it to stay that way.

  These musings were interrupted by the sight of Roxanne, who had just climbed the stairs and was zigzagging toward my office through the maze of newsroom desks, followed by Lucy. Roxanne wore a smart white summer pantsuit that, miraculously, appeared to have survived the long drive without a wrinkle. Lucy also wore pants, as was her habit, but they were drab-colored, of vaguely military styling, which gave her the look of a redheaded Texaco attendant.

  I rose from my desk and met them in my outer office, greeting Roxanne with a kiss. “Rough drive?” I asked.

  “Bumper-to-bumper all the way up to Milwaukee. But then it thinned out.”

  Lucy offered, “Can I get you…water or anything?”

  Roxanne tendered a wan smile. “I’m fine, thanks.”

  “Then let’s get comfortable,” I told them, gesturing that we should sit. The space outside my office had been intended for a secretary, but unlike Barret Logan, the previous publisher, I had not found need for one, relying on the downstairs receptionist for phone duties. So the small anteroom was put to good use as a conference area.

  We settled into the upholstered chairs that surrounded a low table. Lucy unloaded an armful of files she’d carried from the newsroom; I unclipped the pen from my pocket and readied a notebook; Roxanne set her gray leather handbag on the floor. I was collecting my thoughts and about to speak when the phone warbled. Having grown used to these interruptions, and having grown tired of running back to my inner office to take the calls, I’d recently had an extension of my line installed here in the conference room. “Excuse me,” I told the ladies as I answered the phone on the center table.

  “Sorry to bother you, Mr. Manning. It’s Connie downstairs. It’s time for my break, and I wondered if you’re expecting anyone.” On weekends, the lobby doors to the street were kept locked, and visitors needed to be buzzed in.

  “Thanks, Connie. The sheriff is coming, but we’ll cover for you. Go ahead.”

  As I hung up the phone, Lucy asked, “Buzzer duty?”

  I nodded. “Do you mind?”