He heaved a sigh. “Nothing conclusive, I’m afraid. I talked to the kids and got their take on Jason, but no one really seemed to open up—they weren’t about to ‘dis’ their fallen fellow cast member. They portrayed him as smart and affable, maybe a bit arrogant because of his family’s circumstances, but generally they paid tribute to him as an all-round popular guy.”
“Makes sense, I guess.”
“Yeah,” agreed Pierce with a note of derision, “they were only too eager to overlook that fracas with his teammates.”
I instinctively slowed the car as I turned to ask, “Huh? Did I miss something?”
Pierce palmed his forehead. “Sorry, Mark, I wasn’t thinking. I assumed you knew about it, but the incident took place about two years ago, just before you moved to town. It was in the fall. One night, Jason and some of his football buddies got drunk, then got hungry, went out, and tore up a restaurant. Quite the scandal, though Burton—Papa Thrush—did everything in his power to hush it up.”
“Unbelievable.” I shook my head. “Burton managed to keep it out of the Register. Lucy did a complete morgue search on the Thrush family, and we never ran a word about it. I learned after my arrival in Dumont that Barret Logan, the paper’s previous publisher, was prone to spike a story if it reflected poorly on the town’s ‘better’ families—including the Quatrains.”
With a shrug, Pierce observed, “Those were different times; Barret and Burton were from a different generation, one of ‘gentlemen’s understandings’ and such.”
Pondering this, I nearly forgot my reason for broaching this discussion. “And what about Thad? How’d he do with your ‘routine questioning’?”
Pierce paused. “Fine. Just fine.”
I gave him a confused glance, needing more.
“Thad accounted very well for his whereabouts during the latter part of last week. He was usually rehearsing or palling around with Kwynn or at home, which is all easily verified. Unfortunately”—Pierce hesitated—“there’s no way to corroborate the story of his whereabouts during the seemingly crucial period of Friday afternoon. He said he was out of the house, on his own.”
I was afraid to ask, “Doing what?”
Pierce nodded. “Mushrooming.”
“Great. Peachy.”
The sheriff acknowledged, “So it didn’t turn out exactly the way I’d hoped. Still, I’m damn glad I happened to be at the theater.”
Befuddled, I asked, “Why?”
He rubbed his chin. “I guess Thad didn’t tell you about it.”
“Now what?”
“Thad left the theater shortly before I did, and when I went out to the parking lot, he was in trouble. A pack of Jason’s friends, four or five of his Unity High teammates—the same crowd involved in the ‘scandal’—had ganged up on Thad and intended to do some serious harm. They already had him on the asphalt, and they were shouting about Jason. I intervened, of course, and set them straight. Thad laughed it off, so I sent the others home with a firm warning.”
With my head spinning—I really should have pulled over—I asked, “Are they still a threat?”
Pierce hedged. “I doubt it. They’ve already made their point. And they certainly didn’t expect to encounter me while they were doing it. They know that I know how to find them.”
This was scant solace. I told Pierce about Sunday’s anonymous phone call, then we both fell silent, mulling Thad’s worsening predicament.
Turning onto the road that led to the Thrushes’ chichi subdivision, I tried to clear my head and focus on the business at hand. “Jason’s father, what do you know about him?”
“For starters, he’s fifty-six, and he’s not in good health.”
“I noticed. I’d have guessed his age to be twenty years older.”
Pierce explained, “Burton Thrush has had a rough run of luck, both physical and emotional. His wife’s death really threw him. I think that’s what started his downhill slide.”
“How’d she die?”
“Car accident. Ten years ago. Totally unexpected. One day at the office, he got the phone call. Patricia was dead—and his life had changed.”
“Just what is his business? I know he founded Thrush Typo-Tech—something to do with printing?”
“Right. Burton founded the company sometime during the seventies. They produced an innovative line of phototypesetting equipment, which profitably served the Quatrain family’s Quatro Press, among many other large printing firms.” Pierce turned to me. “You probably know more about the technology than I do, Mark.”
I nodded, staring ahead as I drove. “Funny. When you said ‘phototypesetting,’ it crossed my mind that I hadn’t heard the term in a while. There was a day, though, when it was state-of-the-art, largely replacing Linotype when the industry switched from hot type to cold.”
“You’ve lost me.”
“I won’t bore you with the particulars, but in a nutshell, phototypesetting was computer-driven, while Linotype was essentially mechanical. Computer technology continued to evolve, and phototypesetting—which involved touchy equipment and finicky chemistry—was soon replaced by laser typesetting and now direct-to-plate technology. I didn’t realize there was still a market for phototypesetting.”
“Actually,” said Pierce, “there isn’t. Even though the technology has never been clear to me, I’ve understood for some years that Thrush’s business has been floundering. Typo-Tech had its heyday at the time it was founded, but Thrush’s equipment soon became obsolete. He’s struggled to play catch-up ever since, and the company has been on the verge of bankruptcy more than once.”
“Ouch. Judging from that house, he’s accustomed to a fairly lavish lifestyle.” As I said this, we turned off the road, into the wooded development of tacky minicastles.
“Burton’s pretty shrewd,” Pierce assured me. “You can bet that he’s taken steps to safeguard his personal assets. The family’s financial situation has remained secure, but the business could collapse anytime.”
I tisked. “I’ve known entrepreneurs before. If Thrush thinks like most company founders, he tends to confuse his own identity with that of his business. To lose the business would be akin to death.”
“Plus, he’s had emergency bypass surgery twice. A host of complications has robbed him of the middle-age vigor he now needs.”
Pulling into the Thrushes’ cul-de-sac, I summarized, “He’s lost his wife, his health, probably his business, and now his golden boy of a son—to mysterious causes. That should be enough to put any man under. I’m surprised he can handle it.”
“I’m not at all sure he can, Mark. This isn’t over yet.”
I braked the car in front of the cutesy country mansion and checked my blazer pockets for pen and pad. Opening the door, I flinched at the assault of steamy August air. Pierce and I walked up the sidewalk together, following its gratuitous twists and turns—a supposedly charming touch intended to accommodate landscape features that had never been installed.
Before we reached the house, I noticed the rustle of curtains—from two windows, one downstairs near the front door, the other upstairs, where a figure in black peeped through the glass. Our arrival had been noted.
Pierce rang the bell, and before his finger had left the button, the door cracked open. “Good morning, Burton,” said Pierce. “Thanks for making time for us.”
The door opened wider. Burton Thrush clung to the knob as though he might fall. He hadn’t dressed—he wore slippers, pajama bottoms, and a bulky bathrobe to protect against the air-conditioned chill. Though shaved and groomed, his pale complexion and dour expression made him look wraithlike. Eyeing me on the stoop, Thrush demanded of Pierce, “What’s he doing here?”
“Mark Manning is trying to help.”
“Help? I’ve heard everything, you know—there’s good reason to suspect that his own flesh and blood, Thad Quatrain, is responsible for killing my Jason.”
I would have rebutted this, but Pierce beat me to it: “Now, Burto
n, we have no proof that Jason died of unnatural causes, and aside from a childish spat between the two boys, there’s little to link Thad Quatrain to this tragedy. Mark is a friend of mine; he’s an honorable man and a skilled investigative journalist.”
I jumped in: “But I’m not here hounding for news, Mr. Thrush. I simply want to see the mystery of your son’s death solved. I’m certain that the truth will exonerate my nephew.”
With a weary wag of his head, Thrush stood aside to admit us. Closing the door behind us, he said, “I do want this wrapped up, you know.” The words had a strangely impatient tone, at odds with his grieving.
Pierce told him, “Dr. Formhals knows the urgency of issuing a final report. We all have reason to want this wrapped up.”
Thrush led us into the living room, collapsing into a big, ugly chair with tapestry-like upholstery and heavy wooden legs and arms—it looked like something pilfered from a monastery. “Formhals needs to get his ass in gear,” Thrush yapped.
“The required tests take time,” Pierce told him flatly, losing interest in assuaging the grump. The sheriff sat uncertainly on the front edge of a frilly white sofa.
I joined him, sitting on the next cushion. I said to Thrush, “The need for the autopsy is regrettable—the very idea is understandably difficult for the family. But the purpose of the procedure is to find the truth. Why would you want to rush it?”
“So I can bury him,” Thrush answered, bug-eyed.
I heard a laugh, a quiet outburst that was quickly stifled. Glancing over my shoulder toward the front hall, I caught a flash of black disappearing beyond the arched doorway to the room.
“Mica!” said Thrush. “Stop lurking.”
She sauntered into the living room. “Sorry, Daddy. I didn’t know you had company.” We all knew she was lying; I myself had seen her in one of the upstairs windows, watching our arrival. She had sneaked downstairs to eavesdrop. Her father’s word choice was apt—she was indeed “lurking.”
Thrush told her, “The sheriff and his friend aren’t convinced that Jason was the victim of foul play.” He snorted. So did Mica.
Pierce reminded him, “I said that we have no proof. That’s why we’re here.”
Thrush snorted again. “And what do you think you’ll find?”
Pierce shook his head. “I have no idea. But we need to begin somewhere.”
“Returning to the scene of the crime, eh?”
“We don’t know if there was a crime.” Pierce was getting annoyed.
Mica piped in, “Make the men hurry up, Daddy.”
Listening to her baby talk, I had to remind myself that she was twenty-one. I asked, “And what’s your interest in speeding this along?”
Mica strolled behind her father and spindled a lock of his hair around her finger. “Daddy needs his insurance money.”
Pierce and I shared a glance.
Thrush batted away his daughter’s hand. “It’s not a question of need.”
“But there is an insurance policy?” asked Pierce.
“Of course,” said Thrush, as if addressing an idiot. “That’s just sound financial planning. Jason was to be my successor at Typo-Tech. I’ve lost more than a son; I’ve lost the future of my business. Surely, you’ll agree, that’s worth something.”
Pierce hesitated. “May I ask how much?”
Thrush sneered. A finger of drool escaped from the bent corner of his mouth; he wiped it with the back of his hand. “It’s none of your business, but I’m sure you have ways to ferret out any confidential information that suits your whims, so I’ll tell you: ten million dollars.”
Pierce’s brows arched. “That’s a nice round figure.”
Mica giggled.
Though I’d have no trouble remembering these details, I reflexively opened my notebook and uncapped my pen, asking, “And the claim can’t be settled until the coroner rules on the manner of death?”
Thrush gave me a steely nod.
“Well, then,” said Pierce, “it seems we all have our reasons for wanting to get to the bottom of this. Perhaps if we stopped sparring with each other, the investigation could be expedited.” He stood. “If you have no objection, Burton, we’d like to visit Jason’s bedroom.”
Thrush flicked his hand, a smug gesture of permission and dismissal.
As I rose, Mica offered, “I’ll take the men upstairs,” and she led us through the hall to the stairway.
“We know the way,” Pierce told her.
But she wouldn’t take the hint. “The cops made sort of a mess,” she said, leading us up, “but after the doctor took Jason away, things calmed down. Now everything’s back just the way it was. Except Jason, of course.” Her lips parted in a weak smile as she exhaled her breathy little laugh—she sounded like a dog panting.
Arriving in the upstairs hall outside Jason’s room, we found the door closed, and though Mica had insisted on escorting us, she made no move to open it. “Excuse me,” said Pierce, moving past her, gripping the knob, and swinging the door wide.
Following Pierce inside, exactly as I had on Friday evening, an eerie sense of déjà vu washed over me. The eeriness was compounded by an obvious difference: the corpse was missing from the bed. In my mind’s eye, though, I saw Jason clearly. No doubt about it, he was one handsome young man. The vision of him sprawled there would have been enticing had it not been for the tragic circumstances—and the gob of mucus hanging from his mouth.
Mica had finally entered the room, and Pierce asked her, “That phone has more than one line, right?”
She glanced at her brother’s desk. “Four,” she said, nodding. “Maybe only three. Daddy works at home a lot. The extra lines are for the business.”
Pierce glanced at me. “That complicates things with Ma Bell. They can generate computer records of every call in and out, but since this isn’t a murder investigation, they’ll take their time.”
I asked Mica, “Were you at home Friday afternoon?”
“Most of the time. I think so.”
“The play director, Denny Diggins, told us he tried phoning Jason repeatedly that afternoon, leaving messages.”
She grinned, suppressing a laugh.
“Did you notice a lot of phone calls that day? Did you find the messages?”
She shrugged. “The phone rings a lot. There may have been messages for Jason, but we wouldn’t have saved them. I mean—he’s dead.”
Pierce sighed. “Maybe we can recover the voice mail. I’m not sure what it would prove, though.”
I agreed, “We’re fishing. We’re looking for any connection to Jason that could suggest a motive for foul play. He was a popular guy—in recent weeks, he may have spoken by phone to hundreds of people.”
Again I noticed the abundance of stuff in Jason’s room—sports stuff, stereo stuff, computer stuff, and framed photos. I opened a closet door and found more of the same. Stuff was piled on shelving and on the floor. His wardrobe was extensive for a high school student. Hooks on the inside of the door held a leather varsity jacket and a cardigan-style letter sweater.
Pierce was asking Mica about Jason’s athletic activity, taking copious notes, but I felt he was on the wrong track, and besides, the topic didn’t much interest me. So I studied the room at my leisure.
Closing the closet door, I moved to the dresser. Its top was cluttered with more stuff—trophies, brush and comb, a dish for change, a model car, more framed photos, as well as unframed snapshots that were wedged around the mirror. Some of the pictures were of Jason alone. In others he posed with groups of guys, perhaps teammates, all frolicsome and butch; the photos could have been clipped from the pages of an Abercrombie &Fitch catalog.
Leaning close to examine these photos (some of his friends were truly worth studying), I was distracted by a familiar scent. I thought of Neil. A wrinkle of curiosity pinched my brow, then my nose led my gaze to the bottle. There amidst the clutter on Jason’s dresser was a bottle of Vétiver, a pricey French men’s cologne long used by N
eil. I not only recognized the bottle, but I’d know the smell anywhere—a distinctively crisp, woody, masculine scent.
This brought to mind another scent, the fruity, flowery fragrance I’d noted on Jason’s body Friday night. Kwynn Wyman had noticed it Wednesday as well, at dress rehearsal, when she accused Jason of wearing “cheap perfume.” It wasn’t Vétiver—no one could possibly confuse the two fragrances.
So what was it? I searched the top of Jason’s dresser, but I saw no cologne other than the Vétiver; there were no other bottles, flasks, or atomizers. What’s more, the Vétiver was two-thirds empty, so Jason clearly used it; the bottle was not merely some unwanted gift displayed on his dresser. I recalled thinking at Wednesday’s rehearsal that Denny Diggins, then Jason, had oversplashed the aftershave that night. Was the fruity scent perhaps exactly that—not cologne, but aftershave?
“Where’s Jason’s bathroom?” I asked Mica, interrupting Pierce’s questions.
She pointed to the door, which I had assumed was another closet.
Pierce followed as I crossed the bedroom, opened the door, and entered the bath. “What are you looking for?” he asked.
“Aftershave. Just a hunch.”
But my hunch didn’t pay off. Searching the countertop, drawers, and cabinets near the sink, it didn’t even seem that Jason, at seventeen, had been shaving daily; his only razor was a like-new electric, doubtless a coming-of-age birthday gift. Among all the usual toiletries, I found no second scent. In fact, I found a fresh bottle of Vétiver, still in its cellophane-wrapped, forest-green box. I also found a box of condoms, half-used, no cellophane.
Returning with Pierce to the bedroom, we found that Burton Thrush had joined his daughter there. Climbing the stairs must have been taxing—he looked worse than he had earlier. “Well,” he wheezed, “what’s the verdict?”
Pierce told him, “Nothing yet, I’m afraid.”
Thrush wheezed again, but this time it carried a note of derision.
Pulling out my pad and reviewing the notes I’d made, I glanced about the room again. “Mr. Thrush, can you help me with a few questions?”
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