Boy Toy

by Michael Craft

The drawing instantly conveyed his entire aesthetic concept for the new quarters. Since he had described the project as a “home office” for Cynthia, I had envisioned something rather meager in scale—like a weatherproofed hut in the backyard. But this was lavish and whimsical, truly a “design statement,” as Neil might call it. For starters, the new building was two stories high, capped by a sort of lookout porch. It reminded me of a huge gazebo; on the drawing, Neil had labeled it PAVILION. The charming old main house lolled in the background, separated from the new pavilion by a boardwalk that cut through a garden and crossed an expanse of turf. The new structure rose from a cluster of trees as if it had grown there; the building materials, the same used for the main house, gave the pavilion the look of a natural addition to the landscape. In terms of mood, an element of fantasy permeated the entire design.

  “Has she seen it yet?”

  “Just sketches. But she loved the idea.”

  “God, I don’t blame her.” I shook my head. “That’s a lot of office though.”

  Neil jabbed me with his elbow. “It’s not all office. As long as we were at it, we added a few nice…touches.” He flipped back to the floor plans.

  Cynthia’s work space was on the second floor of the new building. It had its own bathroom, a galley kitchen, and a large sitting room as well. An open stairwell rose from the ground level and went up to the roof terrace. I noticed that the entire ground floor of the pavilion was simply labeled SPA. A smaller area of the existing house was also labeled SPA. I tapped the word on the drawing. “What’s that?”

  “Their adult playroom.” He smiled. “The existing house has a nicely equipped spa—sauna, whirlpool, workout area. Cynthia calls it their ‘own private world.’ It’s not just for show; they actually use it and enjoy it together. So the new building will include a larger spa, designed from the ground up, all state-of-the-art.”

  My brows arched. “Sounds wonderfully sybaritic.”

  “It will be. Cynthia wants indoor and outdoor splash pools, total privacy for nude sunbathing, even a ‘meditation garden.’ ” He pointed out these features on the plan. “She has the wish list; I make it happen.” He riffled through the remaining plans—working drawings and details of cabinets, trim, plumbing, wiring, even custom-designed tile patterns.

  Looking at all this, I was amazed anew at Neil’s talents. “Cynthia is one lucky woman. Clearly, she’s found the right man.”

  He stepped back, asking skeptically, “Are you referring to me—or Frank?”

  I laughed. “You, of course. But Frank’s not bad either.”

  Satisfied with my response, he nodded while rolling the plans into a bundle, securing them with fat rubber bands.

  “Thanks for the preview. I’ve been looking forward to this evening, but I had no idea their place was so posh. Having seen it on paper, now I’m really eager to pay a little visit and see the place for myself.”

  “Our purpose,” Neil reminded me, “is to discuss some of the finer points of mushroom poisoning.”

  “Yes”—I conceded—“a dinner with a purpose.”

  “First things first though. Are you ready for lunch?”

  “Starved.”

  A few minutes later, we had left Neil’s office and walked the remaining block to First Avenue Grill. Passing the windows of the restaurant on our way to the front door, I could see through the reflections in the glass that the crowd within was on the thin side. “Why is that?” I wondered aloud. “Restaurants never seem to do very well on Mondays.”

  Neil shrugged. “Maybe it’s just the decent weather today. People would rather be outdoors.”

  “But they still have to eat. What do they do—go to the park and forage for nuts?”

  He laughed, swinging the door open for me.

  Entering the Grill together, we were greeted at once by Nancy Sanderson. “Mr. Manning, Mr. Waite, so nice to see you. Your table’s ready, of course.”

  While leading us across the room, she paused to tell us, “By the way, congratulations on your nephew Thad’s performance with the Dumont Players this past weekend. Do extend my best wishes to him.” She smiled brightly—an effusive expression not typically allowed by her polite, restrained manner.

  I thanked her, adding, “I thought I saw you in the lobby on Saturday night.”

  “I was there,” she affirmed, nodding. “And I couldn’t have been more impressed. Thad is such a talented young man.”

  “Yes, he is,” I agreed, though I couldn’t imagine how she had come to that conclusion on the basis of Saturday’s performance—Thad wasn’t running on all eight cylinders that night.

  Neil thanked her on Thad’s behalf.

  “I’m sure you’re very, very proud of him.” She beamed.

  “We are,” we told her.

  But I was doubly confused. Not only did I find her praise of Saturday’s performance unwarranted (was she just being polite?), but even more perplexing was her uncharacteristic mood—I had never seen her so upbeat and chipper. What’s more, it seemed odd that she made no mention of Jason Thrush’s untimely death, and I clearly recalled overhearing her sour comment on that topic Saturday night: “What goes around, comes around.” It almost gave the impression that she was glad Jason was dead.

  As I pondered this unlikely possibility, Nancy took us to our table, where Neil and I sat. Settling in, unfurling my napkin, I noticed the front door open. Sheriff Pierce walked in with Dr. Formhals, the county coroner. Directing Neil’s attention to the door with a nod, I asked him, “Do you mind if they join us? Might be informative. Sorry to intrude on ‘our’ time though.”

  With a wink, he reminded me, “We see plenty of each other. Ask them over.”

  Nancy told us, “I’d be happy to extend your invitation.” With a bob of her head—not quite a bow—she slipped away to greet the new arrivals.

  Pierce listened, then looked in our direction with a wave and a smile. He and Formhals began moving toward our table. Nancy followed with the extra menus.

  We stood, greeting them, and the four of us were soon clustered around the linen-draped table. Neil and I sat across from each other, as before, with Pierce and Formhals now between us. Nancy excused herself to seat another group of patrons who’d just arrived.

  Formhals laughed his low, soft chuckle. “It seems we’ve been running into each other with uncanny regularity, Mark. It’s a pleasure, of course.”

  With a weak grin, I said, “I wish I could say the same, Vernon.” I tried to explain, “Circumstances…”

  He laughed heartily now. “I know, Mark, I know—the coroner isn’t most people’s idea of ‘good company.’ ” He sat back, smiling.

  Pierce told me, “I understand Lucille Haring has an interview with Vernon this afternoon.”

  “Right after lunch,” Formhals added. “I’ll walk back to the Register’s offices with you, if you don’t mind, Mark.”

  “Not at all, Doctor; I’d be honored. I knew Lucy planned to call you, but I didn’t know when you were meeting.”

  Neil entered the conversation, asking anyone, “Some new development?”

  I answered, “Not that I know of.”

  Formhals shook his head. “No, your editor simply wanted some clarification on the preliminary report I issued yesterday afternoon.”

  I had of course asked Lucy to interview him because if I did so myself, he would correctly assume my motive to be protection of Thad, not news-gathering. I told him, “The Register hasn’t printed anything regarding your mushroom theory yet. When we discussed it by phone on Saturday, it seemed speculative at best. Then, on Sunday, your report left me confused.”

  He leaned forward on his elbows. “Then ask me, Mark.” He smiled.

  As long as he had opened the door, I was tempted to take a few notes, but I felt he might remain more candid if I left this discussion off-the-record. I recapped, “On the basis of Jason’s symptoms, you told us on Saturday that you suspected mushroom poisoning. In yesterday’s report, you said that
analysis of Jason’s stomach contents did not reveal the presence of mushrooms. But you drew no conclusions from this, awaiting the results of toxicology tests.”

  “That’s absolutely correct.” He nodded.

  Neil gave me a look that asked, So…?

  “So,” I continued, “if there were no mushrooms in Jason’s stomach, what could the toxicology tests reveal? Are you now exploring some other angle?”

  He shook his head. “Mushroom poisoning is still my best theory. Had I actually found the mushrooms, that would have cinched it. It didn’t work out that way, so it now remains for toxicology to prove or disprove the theory.”

  Pierce asked the question I’d been trying to ask: “If there weren’t mushrooms in Jason’s stomach, doesn’t that disprove the theory?”

  Again the coroner shook his head. “Some mushroom toxins are slow-acting. The mushrooms themselves could have been ingested and passed through the intestines days earlier, leaving the toxins to do their work.”

  Neil nodded, taking an analytical interest in this unappetizing discussion. He asked, “What about vomit?”

  “The subject had not recently vomited. His throat was clogged with mucus, remember, but there was no residue of regurgitation.”

  “Now then,” said Nancy, reappearing at our table, “let me tell you about today’s special.”

  We all turned to her with sheepish smiles, as if caught in the midst of a lewd discussion. Though I was no longer hungry, I tried to look interested.

  “I’m particularly proud of this recipe—it’s so fresh and so seasonal.” She clasped her hands together and instinctively ran her tongue, once, across her upper lip. “I call it king bolete thermidor.”

  Neil arched a brow. “Sounds interesting. What’s in it?”

  “King boletes, of course—Boletus edulis, more popularly known as porcini.”

  “Ah.” I should have guessed. “Mushrooms.”

  “The king bolete is, for mushroom hunters, one of summer’s richest rewards. Highly prized by gourmets, the handsome, smooth-capped bolete is large, firm, and meaty. Yesterday afternoon, I discovered a bounty of these choice edibles in a small pine grove not far from my home. After a bit of experimentation, I hit upon a thermidor recipe that complements their bacony flavor and succulent aroma perfectly—if you’ll pardon my immodesty.” She cast her gaze downward.

  The four of us exchanged a glance.

  “Thank you, Nancy,” I told her. “That’s tempting, but I think we’ll need a few more minutes with the menu.”

  Later that afternoon, I was at work in my office at the Register, poring over an ever thicker file of notes and research regarding the circumstances of Jason Thrush’s death. A rap on the doorjamb interrupted my thoughts.

  “I’m finished with Coroner Formhals,” Lucy told me from the doorway.

  I waved her in. “Anything beyond what he told me at lunch?”

  She shook her head, sitting across from me at my desk. Reading from a steno pad, she recounted their entire interview. The bottom line was the same: the coroner’s best theory was still mushroom poisoning, and it would remain so until disproven by toxicology.

  Looking up from her notes, she saw that my attention had returned to the file on my desk. “Still with me?”

  With a soft laugh, I said, “Sorry, Lucy. It’s just that the forensics seem stalled for now—at least till Formhals gets those test results. Since lunch, I’ve been preoccupied with a new angle.”

  “Oh? Care to share it?” She sat back, wedging a bright yellow pencil between her ear and a short shock of her bright red hair. She twitched her head inquisitively. For a moment, I saw her as an exotic bird.

  Blinking this image from my mind, I asked, “Care to do a bit of digging?”

  Her grin confirmed her readiness. Though I’d taught her the ropes of journalism here on the job in Dumont, she’d arrived with formidable research skills, and more often than not, it was I who now depended on her, not vice versa. She asked, “Who’s our subject?”

  “Nancy Sanderson. I know nothing about the woman, except that she owns First Avenue Grill and, like half the town, seems mushroom-crazed. But who is she? And what’s behind her apparent animosity toward Jason Thrush?”

  A glint of interest. “Animosity?”

  I recounted Nancy’s harsh comment about Jason that I’d overheard in the theater lobby. “Then today, at lunch, she was all giddy and gabbing about Thad in the play, without even mentioning Jason’s death, which at least merits lip service, regardless of how she felt about him. Her behavior, in a word, seems suspicious.”

  Lucy made a note. “I’ll get right on it. Anything else?”

  “Nope. Not right now.”

  She stood. “Then I’ll leave you with your thoughts.” And she did.

  My thoughts led me back to my file, which in turn led me back to that morning’s visit to the Thrush house. I picked up the phone, dialed the sheriff’s department, identified myself, and asked for Doug Pierce.

  Within moments, he answered, “Hi, Mark. You just caught me. What’s up?”

  “That whole encounter with Mica Thrush this morning—I told Neil about her contention that Jason was gay, and after we talked about it, Neil seemed to think she might be on the level.”

  “If it’s true, it’s an intriguing wrinkle, to say the least.”

  “What do you think of the Denny Diggins angle?”

  He reminded me, “I have no firm reason to think that Jason Thrush died of anything but natural causes.”

  I paused. “I hope you’re right.”

  “Even if toxicology should point to foul play, I see no point in tipping our hand to Diggins and putting him on early alert.”

  “You’re right. There’s no urgency, at least with regard to Denny. If Jason was murdered, and if Denny did it, he’d be unlikely to bolt out of town during the run of his own play—he’s too egotistical. He’ll stay put through the weekend.”

  Having said that, I felt that I’d just set a deadline for the investigation. Certainly, we didn’t want to lose sight of Denny Diggins, but more important, I feared that the second weekend of Teen Play could be devastating for Thad if suspicion still hung over him.

  It was time to wrap this up. But how?

  Upstairs on Prairie Street, Neil and I spiffed for our evening at the Geldens’. Neil had suggested that our dinner date warranted a second shave and shower, so we gabbed while tending to these ablutions in the white-tile bath adjoining our bedroom. Rinsing his razor, Neil asked, “Did you hear from Roxanne today?”

  “We said our good-byes in the kitchen; I was on my way out, and she had just come down for coffee. Nothing since then.” I was a step ahead of Neil, brushing my still-damp hair. Peering sidelong into the mirror, I examined the creep of silver through my temples. To my surprise, I liked the look of it.

  He laughed softly—carefully—while shaving his chin. “I half expected her to phone from the car. She seemed so distraught over the whole move-in business.”

  I paused. Looking him in the eye (in the mirror, that is), I told him, “I’ll bet she was just worried about our reaction. She needed some reassurance that we wouldn’t think less of her for…for giving away a part of herself.”

  He stopped shaving. “You mean, giving herself to another man? Were we supposed to be jealous?”

  I shrugged. “Maybe. The three of us have had some ‘romantic dynamics’ at work over the years, but I doubt if she feels we’re in any way threatened by Carl. When I said that she’d be giving away a part of herself, I was referring to her edge, her independence.”

  “Don’t count on it!”

  I laughed, explaining, “In our eyes, ‘she’ will suddenly become ‘they.’ ”

  Neil nodded. “True enough. We won’t think less of her, though.”

  I repeated, “She needed some reassurance.”

  He rinsed his face. “Did we handle it all right?”

  “Think so. Hope so.” I was finished at the sink. We wer
e both shower-naked. I asked, “This isn’t dressy tonight, is it?”

  He eyed me askance. “You can’t go like that.” With a grin, he continued, “Cynthia said, ‘Just us, just casual, just friends at home,’ or words to that effect.” He dabbed on some Vétiver, and the scent seemed amplified in the steamy confines of the bathroom.

  “Khakis, then?”

  “What else?”

  While dressing in the bedroom, my thoughts began to focus on the evening ahead. “Not to dampen tonight’s festivities, but I’m really curious to find out what Frank learned about mushroom poisoning. I can’t imagine there’s any sort of scenario that would point to Thad.”

  Neil pulled a soft yellow knit shirt over his head and smoothed the collar. “Even if Jason was deliberately poisoned with mushrooms—murdered—Thad’s interest in mycology is no indictment. Mushrooming is an uncommonly popular pastime in Dumont. Seems goofy to me, but lots of people here have that specialized knowledge.”

  “Including”—I looked up from buckling my watch band—“every kid in town who’s been a member of Fungus Amongus.”

  Neil arched a brow. “Is Thad still home? Let’s ask who else is in the club.”

  I shook my head. “He left an hour ago, going over to Kwynn’s, I think.”

  “Frank can fill us in. We’ll just have to wait till—”

  “I know”—finger snap. “Thad’s yearbook. What’s it called? Central Times.”

  Neil said, “I know where he keeps them—the bookcase next to his dresser.”

  And we left the bedroom together, headed for Thad’s room across the hall, near the back of the house.

  His door was wide open, so we had no qualms about entering. During the time we’d lived in the same house, I was amazed to watch the transformation of Thad’s quarters. In the beginning, his room was little more than a spartan cell, reflecting a tenant with few interests and low self-esteem. He was innately neat, and that didn’t change, but as he blossomed—as a student, as an actor, as a person—so did his lair. I was struck now by how different this space was from the bedroom occupied by Jason Thrush, which had seemed as sterile as a hotel room. Thad’s room had character. Books, magazines, and CDs abounded. Clippings and posters covered the walls. Stacks of play programs and scripts shared space on his cramped but well-organized desk. And a new stack I noticed—college catalogs—made me catch my breath. Was there really only a year left?