Boy Toy

by Michael Craft

  “It is indeed.” Her right hand left her lap, lifted her glass, and touched it to mine. We both sipped the blond, sweet, syrupy vermouth. She swallowed, then dabbed her lips. “Was there something in particular you wished to discuss?”

  I nodded—the topic was difficult, and there was no point in dancing around it. “The death of Jason Thrush.”

  “Ah.” She sat back a fraction of an inch. “I understand your concern.”

  “You do?”

  “Well”—her gaze wandered from mine as she searched for the words—“I understand there are circumstances that, in the eyes of some, might appear to implicate your nephew.” Quietly, she added, “I’m sorry, Mr. Manning.”

  “I presume, then, you’ve read about the coroner’s report.”

  “Certainly. I saw it in this morning’s paper. The very notion of mushroom poisoning seems terribly bizarre, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, I do.” Shaking my head, I added, “It makes me wish that mushrooming was not among Thad’s various interests.”

  She leaned toward me. “That’s precisely my point. Thad’s avid interest in mycology is rather well-known, and deservedly so. I’ve lectured many a year to the mushroom club at Central High, and he’s one of the brightest pupils I’ve encountered—to say nothing of his infectious enthusiasm for the subject.” She smiled. “I’m sure you’re very proud of him.”

  I laughed at the irony. “I would be, of course. Unfortunately, this particular area of expertise only adds to the suspicions of those who already feel Thad had some sort of vendetta against Jason.”

  Nancy lowered her eyes. “Yes, I heard about the, uh… threat.” She was doubtless tempted to add, It’s the talk of the town, but she spared me that insight.

  I exhaled noisily, gathering my thoughts. “Nancy,” I began, uncertain how to broach this remark, “you seem to be fond of Thad, but I get the impression—from some things I’ve heard—that you disliked Jason Thrush.”

  She sipped her Lillet before telling me, with no apparent emotion, “That’s correct. As you may know, I have something of a history with the Thrush family, and it has not been cordial.”

  I nodded. “I’m aware of two painful incidents, one of them twelve years ago, the other more recent. I learned this only yesterday, and I was especially sorry to hear the circumstances of your husband’s death.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Manning. My husband—his name was Leonard—had worked with Burton Thrush since the founding days of Typo-Tech. He was a chemical engineer and was largely responsible for developing some of the processes that enabled the business to capture the early market in phototypesetting. There was a computer team as well, of course, and Burton himself was a chemist, but it was ultimately Leonard who cinched the key formulas and processes. His contributions and loyalty were such that many people assumed he and Burton were partners in the business, but in fact, Leonard was simply a paid employee. He was very well paid, and the terms of his contract were generous, but he had no real stake in the business itself.”

  “Burton had always been the sole owner, correct?” Flipping open a steno pad and uncapping my pen, I began to make a few notes.

  She nodded once. “Yes. Burton’s ownership was never in dispute.”

  “What was in dispute?”

  She thumped her fingers on the table. “Issues of decency, honor, simple justice. That sounds rather vague, I’m sure. Specifically at issue were the terms of Leonard’s contract—after he died.”

  “He died too young, I know. But how? Was it related to his work?”

  Her head wobbled. “We don’t really know. He was forty-six; I was forty-five. He took gravely ill with a liver condition that was unbeatable, at least back then. There was talk of a transplant, but the disease progressed too quickly, and Leonard died within a month of the diagnosis. He had a family history of late-life liver problems, so he was prone to the condition, but his lab work with experimental chemistry may well have triggered the final sclerosis. If you’re asking whether I blame Burton for Leonard’s death, no, I don’t. But I do blame Burton for making my life a living hell after Leonard died.”

  I paused in my note-taking to sip the Lillet. “There was supposed to be some sort of death settlement?”

  “Yes, from the very beginning, but it turned out there had been some legalistic oversights in Leonard’s initial employment contract with Burton, and since the company was entering a period of decline, Burton took full advantage of those loopholes. Leonard had devoted himself heart and soul to that business, but when he died, despite his considerable ‘sweat equity,’ I got virtually nothing.”

  “Did you take Burton to court?”

  “You bet. But he had good lawyers, and the written contract was faulty, and he just plain lied about his verbal agreements with Leonard. I lost—not only the lawsuit, but a comfortable future as well. With no children to lean on, I had to enter the workforce.” She drank the last of the Lillet in her glass, then tapped the bottle, as if to ask me, More?

  I accepted with a nod, and she poured a bit more for both of us.

  “I had never much liked Burton, but after the showdown in court, I must confess, I hated the man. Two years later, when his wife, Patricia, died in a car accident, I was sorry for her, but I found great joy in his misery. His failing health has also brightened my spirits.”

  “And the death of his son?”

  She smiled. “You’re too perceptive, Mr. Manning.” She raised her glass, toasting destiny: “What goes around, comes around.”

  Though my mouth felt dry, I could not quite bring myself to join her as she drank. Instead, I sat back, watching her. “Unless I’m mistaken, the justice you find in Jason’s death is sort of a double payback.”

  “Yes,” she confirmed flatly, “it is.” She leaned forward on the table, resting her weight on her elbows, and I realized she had begun to feel the alcohol. “Did you hear what happened? It was shortly before you took over the Register.”

  I nodded. “Jason did some damage here at the Grill.”

  She snorted. “That’s an understatement. It was two years ago, come October. Late one evening, Jason and some teammates came in. They had been carousing and were already drunk, needing food. I was inclined not to serve them, but in truth, we were afraid to refuse, given their condition. On top of which, I figured, a good hot meal would take the edge off their drunkenness, so they were served. As soon as the meal was under way, though, Jason demanded liquor, and then the others did as well. My staff and I naturally refused—not only because the boys were already far too drunk, but because they were clearly underage.”

  “And then they got…rowdy?”

  “Rowdy? With Jason as their ringleader, they practically destroyed the place. I was shut down for two weeks for repairs. Burton would barely admit that his son was in any way to blame; he claimed I was falsely accusing Jason out of spite for our own previous run-in. Ultimately, grudgingly, Burton did pay for the repairs, but he refused to make any restitution for those two weeks of lost business.”

  I shook my head. “Nice guy. You should have sued him, Nancy.”

  “Yes, I probably should have. The sad truth, though, is that I feared losing to him in court again. I had thought I’d easily win the case over Leonard’s death settlement, but I didn’t. I was drained of all confidence in confronting Burton. It was easier to cut my losses.”

  “Exactly as he wanted.”

  She nodded, then lifted her glass and drank.

  I leaned forward on the table. “So when Jason died, you shed no tears.”

  “Please.” She laughed. “I’m not the least bit sorry that Jason is dead, and I’m delighted to watch Burton suffer through yet another tragedy that has befallen the house of Thrush. But”—she leaned within inches of me and spoke with slow, deliberate resolve—“I. Did. Not. Kill. Jason.”

  Unprepared for this statement, which seemed to both read my mind and counter my unspoken thoughts, I stammered guiltily, “No one ever meant, uh… I nev
er meant to accuse…”

  “Mr. Manning.” Her flat inflection was candid and unemotional. “I have never made a secret of my intense dislike for the Thrushes. Objectively speaking, I’d have had a strong motive to kill Jason, and many people know it. When I read this morning that Jason was the apparent victim of mushroom poisoning, I realized at once that suspicion could begin to focus on me, much as it has focused on your nephew, Thad; this is borne out by your invitation today, for the first time ever, to sit and talk with you. Your reasoning in these suspicions is solid. My affection for local mushrooms and their culinary purposes is, I daresay, legendary. The flip side of ingesting wild mushrooms is avoiding the poisonous ones, so it’s only logical to assume that I am well acquainted with the fly agaric and the entire Amanita family—which indeed I am. If you’d care to step outside, I can point out specimens growing within a hundred yards of the door, right downtown.”

  I cleared my throat. “That won’t be necessary, Nancy. I trust your expertise.”

  Still leaning near me, she picked up her glass and drank the last of her Lillet; I did likewise. Swallowing, she breathed heavily, then told me, “I had a motive to kill Jason, and I had a working knowledge of the mushrooms that killed him—but so did Thad. You seem eager to believe that Thad could not have committed this crime. I’m asking you to believe that I too am a gudgeon of circumstance.” Having stated her case, she again breathed heavily, then sat back in her chair, watching me.

  I remained propped on my elbows, leaning over our empty glasses. The calm features of my face surely gave no hint that my mind was in a spin. These dizzying thoughts were not the result of alcohol, nor were they caused by Nancy’s words. No, a scent hung there at the table, sweet and flowery, which at first I assumed to be that of the liquor, perhaps carried on Nancy’s breath or even my own.

  No, I realized, what I smelled was Nancy’s perfume. It was saccharine, feminine, and cloying—much like the fragrance that lingered in Jason’s room after his death. Once again, the smell triggered a vague memory from many years back.

  But I just couldn’t place it.

  By the time I left First Avenue Grill, I was nearly late for my meeting with Coroner Formhals, so I hopped into my car and drove the few blocks to the Public Safety Building, which also housed the sheriff’s department. As luck would have it, just as I arrived, someone pulled out of a space not far from the front entrance. I parked at the curb and trotted from the car to the door, glancing at my watch. It was exactly two o’clock; I was on time.

  I checked in at the dispatch booth, telling one of the officers on duty at a switchboard that Dr. Formhals was expecting me. The deputy greeted me by name, recognizing me from previous visits to Sheriff Pierce. She asked, “Do you know how to find the coroner’s office?”

  I replied that I did, then asked, “Does the sheriff happen to be in now?” If Pierce was free, I reasoned, he might want to sit in on the meeting with Formhals.

  Checking a logbook, the deputy shook her head. “Sorry. He’s out on a call.”

  Thanking her, I headed down one of several wide hallways that radiated from the dispatch booth. The heels of my shoes (they had dried from that morning’s encounter with Mica’s frisky hose) snapped on the hard, gray terrazzo floor. I turned down a narrower hallway, where white walls reflected the sterile glow of too much fluorescent light. Stepping to a door bearing an engraved-plastic sign, CORONER, I turned the knob and stepped inside.

  The dreary little outer office had a desk where a clerk normally sat, but not today. Opposite the desk were a few extra chairs along a windowless wall. Reaching above the chairs, I straightened a faded print of a tranquil country landscape that hung askew in a cheesy plastic frame. My fussing did little to improve the general air of civil-service shabbiness.

  “Is that you, Mark?” called the doctor’s deep voice from around a corner. In the breezy tones of his handsome speech, I thought I detected the hint of a Caribbean patois, but as Formhals had worked in Dumont far longer than I, I knew nothing of his roots.

  “Yes, Vernon. Anybody home?”

  He stepped out of his office and extended his hand. “Just me today, I’m afraid. I’ve been expecting you. Welcome.” His manner, as always, was cordial enough, but I’d always found his bearing stiff, his air professorial. A crisp white lab coat did nothing to soften this image. His half smile seemed to say with a chortle, This won’t hurt a bit. Instead, he asked pleasantly, “How can I be of help?” And he escorted me around the corner, into his office.

  The office was far more inviting than the waiting room. The space was larger and more comfortable, dominated by a massive wooden desk. In addition to the expected books, files, and medical charts, the office bore various personal touches of its occupant, accumulated over the years—diplomas, certificates, photographs, sporting memorabilia, travel knickknacks, a child’s finger painting, a maple-based desk lamp that had been retired from home use. Behind the desk, he settled into a creaky chair with worn leather upholstery. In front of the desk, I took a more spartan seat of county issue, opened my notebook, and readied my pen.

  I told him, “Before you issued your report on Jason Thrush yesterday, concluding that the manner of death was homicide, Sheriff Pierce welcomed my investigation into the matter, as the grounds for an official police investigation were limited.”

  Formhals nodded. “I’m aware of that, Mark, and Douglas has asked me to continue to assist you.”

  “Excellent. Thank you.” I gathered my thoughts. “The search for Jason’s killer has so far been focused on motivation, which has broadened the field of suspects instead of limiting it. In other words, I’ve found that plenty of people, to varying degrees, had reason to want Jason dead.” I glanced at my list of possible suspects: greedy Burton and Mica Thrush, vengeful Nancy Sanderson, sexually confused Denny Diggins, ambitious Tommy Morales, jilted Nicole Winkler, and finally, Thad.

  I continued, “I’m essentially back at square one, Vernon. Instead of focusing on motives, I should probably take a closer look at the killer’s method, which has been a point of confusion all along.”

  Freshening the dimple in the knot of his tie, he asked patiently, “What confuses you?”

  I tossed my hands. “Everything.” Reviewing my notes, I said, “You’ve determined that the cause of death was mushroom poisoning. This was first suspected on the basis of the victim’s symptoms and later confirmed by toxicology tests. Choline and muscarine were the specific toxins detected, and these poisons are associated with the mushroom known as fly agaric, which grows here at this time of year.”

  “Bravo.” Formhals smiled. “A fine summation. Keep going.”

  I tapped my notes. “Here’s where I get confused. Fly agaric is rarely lethal unless consumed in large quantities, and its toxins act quickly, within three hours of ingestion. That’s not long enough for the mushrooms themselves to be digested and passed through the intestines. What’s more, Jason hadn’t vomited, so there should have been mushrooms in his stomach—but there weren’t.” I looked up at Formhals. “How can you reconcile this disparity?”

  He sat forward in his chair, exhaling a sigh. “I don’t have the answer, Mark. The pathology takes us only so far; the rest is a matter of detection. Still, there are a number of ways that the poisoning could have occurred, ways that are consistent with the known facts of the case.”

  I scribbled a few Palmer loops to get my pen running. “Meaning, Jason didn’t necessarily eat a heap of fly agaric, then keel over.”

  “Correct. In fact, we know that he ate no mushrooms whatever.”

  I asked my key question: “Then how did the poison get into Jason?”

  As if it were obvious, he responded with a shrug, “By first taking the poison out of the mushrooms.”

  I paused as if slapped. Looking him in the eye, I asked, “You can do that?”

  “Of course.” He laughed. “I do apologize, Mark, but these technicalities seem second nature to me. Let me qualify my ‘of course
.’ Actually, it would take a bit of lab know-how, but certainly, the choline and muscarine could be extracted from fly agaric. Once that’s done, there are any number of ways to poison the victim, who wouldn’t need to ingest a single mushroom. Offhand, I can think of at least three possibilities.”

  I smiled. “My pen is poised, Doctor.”

  He cleared his throat, preparing to lecture. “First, the extracted toxins could be added in strong doses to virtually any food or liquid, then fed to the victim—the classic method of administering poison. Second, the extracted toxins could be suspended or dissolved in alcohol, creating a tincture; if the infected alcohol was then spilled on the victim, the toxins could be efficiently absorbed through the skin, with deadly consequences. Third, the extracted toxins could simply be injected into the victim, with very fast results.”

  I looked up from my notes. “But that would leave a needle mark, right?”

  “Right. During my physical examination of the victim, I scrutinized every square centimeter of the body, finding no evidence of injection—but a killer will sometimes resort to fiendish measures to disguise needle marks.”

  I didn’t want to ask.

  “An additional possibility,” Formhals rambled on, “is that the two telltale toxins could have been combined from sources other than mushrooms, then used to kill the victim, giving the appearance of mushroom poisoning. This method would of course send the investigation down a false path, focusing on innocent suspects along the way…”

  He continued to weigh the finer points of his theory, giving examples of how the mushroom toxins could be replicated, but I tuned out, having already learned the crucial detail that would steer my investigation in a new direction. I now knew that Jason had not actually eaten mushrooms; he’d simply been poisoned—by whatever method—with toxins either extracted from mushrooms or combined to mimic mushrooms. Something Formhals had said still rang in my ear: “it would take a bit of lab know-how” for the killer to pull this off. As Formhals lectured onward, I scratched at my notes, drawing a series of empty boxes, borrowing Lucy’s grid technique.