Barb also got up from the table. Moving to the refrigerator to grab a diet soda, she paused, suggesting, “If Cindy has no dinner plans, ask her over.”
Though it was just past eight o’clock when I climbed the stairs from the lobby, activity in the Register’s newsroom was already in full swing. I’d phoned Lucy overnight to tell her the situation with Frank, and she had suggested extra staffing that morning as the story continued to break. Our readers wouldn’t learn the details for another twenty-four hours, but when they did, we wanted them fully informed.
I could see that Doug Pierce had already arrived; he sat with Lucy inside the glass wall of my outer office. Crossing the newsroom, I noticed them hunkering over something on the low table that anchored the several upholstered chairs. Entering, I laughed upon discovering the object of their attention.
“Morning, Mark,” said Lucy. “Prune!”
Pierce was sitting with his back to me. Turning, he said with a smile, “Hey, Mark. Kringle?”
I asked skeptically, “Prune?”
“Yeah.” He licked frosting from a finger. “Thought I’d try it—it’s good.”
“Great with coffee,” confirmed Lucy. A pot with several stacked mugs sat there on a tray. She poured for me.
“Thanks.” I sat between them. Deigning to try a small slice of the brown-smeared Danish, I admitted, “Not bad.”
Lucy flipped open a folder and ran over her notes. “Cynthia Dunne-Gelden arrives at eight-fifteen, correct?”
I nodded, glancing at my watch. “She’s habitually prompt—she’ll be here in ten minutes.” I grabbed a steno pad from the side table and removed from a pocket my pet pen, the antique Montblanc. “Have you prepared a list of interview questions?”
“A few,” said Lucy. “Once we get rolling, I assume we’ll just wing it.”
“A reasonable assumption,” I agreed.
Pierce clapped crumbs from his hands. “My phone call—it’ll get through?”
Lucy nodded, grabbing the phone on the conference table. “I’ll make sure.” She punched zero, then waited a few seconds. “Hi, Connie. Two things. First, we’re up in Mark’s outer office with Sheriff Pierce. A woman is coming in shortly, Cynthia Dunne-Gelden. She has a meeting with Mark, so let me know when she arrives, and I’ll come down for her. Second, the sheriff is expecting an important call”—Lucy paused, checking her notes—“shortly after eight-thirty. Be sure to put it through to this extension, but no other interruptions. Okay?… Thanks, Connie.” Lucy hung up the phone and crossed her arms.
“Great,” I said, “we’re ready. Let’s run over some of those questions.”
As Lucy and I reviewed the interview points she’d prepared, Pierce listened quietly, cutting a few more slices of kringle.
Mere seconds past eight-fifteen, Connie phoned up to tell us that Cynthia had arrived. Lucy excused herself, heading down to the lobby. Pierce and I waited, and within the minute, I saw Lucy’s crop of red hair bobbing up the stairway at the front of the newsroom. Cynthia followed, and I could tell, even from a distance, that she had been awake all night. The shattering news of her husband’s infidelity and arrest, the bizarre scheme of infecting witch hazel with mushroom toxins, the unplanned wee-hours drive home from Green Bay, all these factors had taken their toll. Normally the very picture of self-assurance, impeccable grooming, and tasteful attire, Cynthia now looked like hell. She needed sleep, she needed makeup, and she needed to change out of yesterday’s clothes.
Lucy escorted her through the newsroom and into my office. Pierce and I rose. I stepped to meet her at the doorway. “My God, Cynthia,” I said while giving her a hug, “I’m so sorry about everything. You must be crushed.”
She nodded, managing a slight smile. “Thank you, Mark. You’ve become such a dear friend. At times like these—” She broke off, raising a hand to her lips, stifling a whimper.
I asked, “You’ve met Sheriff Douglas Pierce, haven’t you?”
“Of course. Good morning, Sheriff.” She extended her hand.
“Morning, Cynthia. Mark invited me to sit in on this, in case any procedural questions come up. I couldn’t be sorrier about the…circumstances.”
She assured Pierce, “Neither could I.”
Lucy suggested, “Why don’t we all sit down.” We grouped around the table, Pierce and Cynthia across from each other, Lucy across from me.
Settling in, fingering my pen, I made a few preambular remarks, but Cynthia seemed more focused on the pastry than on my words. “I’m sorry,” I told her. “Coffee? Prune Danish?”
“Thanks,” she said, nodding, “I’m starved. Forgot to eat.” Lucy poured the coffee; Pierce stacked a few slices of kringle on a napkin and passed it to her.
I continued, “Since news of all this won’t break in the Register till tomorrow morning’s edition, I wanted to discuss with you our treatment of the story. First, you have my assurance that we’ll do nothing to sensationalize the more…well, ‘sensational’ aspects of what’s transpired.”
“Thank you, Mark.” Cynthia slurped her coffee, broke off a bit of pastry.
“In exchange for this consideration, if it’s not asking too much, we’d like to run an exclusive interview with you. From our perspective, it’s good, solid journalism. From your perspective, it’s a chance to spin the story any way you wish. Fair enough?” I uncapped my pen; Lucy switched on her tape recorder.
Cynthia nodded, swallowing. “Of course, Mark. I appreciate this opportunity.”
“Excellent. Lucy has a few prepared questions to get us started.”
Lucy glanced at her notes. “What was your first reaction, Cynthia, when you learned that Frank had been arrested on suspicion of murdering Jason Thrush?”
“I was stunned, of course—I still am. The revelation of Frank and Jason’s apparent relationship is particularly distressful, as I’m sure you can understand. Regarding the murder, though…well, I just can’t believe it.”
I asked, “Are you saying generally that news of the murder was unexpected, or are you saying specifically that you don’t believe Frank is the killer?”
She paused, thinking through my dual question. “Both. Obviously, the Thrush boy’s murder came as a great shock to everyone. As for Frank, even though the circumstances seem damning, he just couldn’t be responsible—I know him far too well.”
Lucy asked, “Did you know he was gay?”
Cynthia closed her eyes, exhaling. “I knew he had a past.” After a moment’s thought, she opened her eyes. “May I speak off-the-record, Mark? I’d like to tell you some background.”
“Please do.” I capped my pen and set it down, but Lucy made no move to stop her tape recorder.
Cynthia leaned back in her chair. “When Frank and I first met, when I guest-lectured to his class at Woodlands, we clicked instantly. Sure, we shared the same background in molecular biology, but we also liked each other. We made each other laugh. We became friends. And I hardly need add that I found Frank achingly attractive—who’d blame me? Yes, I knew from the start that the attraction, the physical attraction, wasn’t mutual, but we both seemed to understand that that didn’t really matter. After all, I brought other things to the relationship. Things, you might ask, like success and affluence? Sure. Did that make me feel ‘used’ or ‘bought’? Not in the least. I felt blessed, I felt lucky to land a man like that, a man wanted by many other women, a man they could never have.”
I asked, “When you married Frank eight years ago, did you have a specific understanding that he would ‘give up’ his gay life?”
“Yes. That was part of the bargain, if you will. But we didn’t phrase our understanding in terms of gay versus straight. We simply agreed that our marriage vows would be taken literally and seriously—we promised to remain faithful to each other, excluding all others.”
“Cynthia,” I said tentatively, “forgive me if this gets too personal, but it does seem to shed some light on what’s happened. When Neil and I visited your home on Mon
day night, while we were touring the spa, you implied that there was no sex in your marriage. You said you were forty-three; you alluded to menopause. Then, referring to the spa as your ‘private world,’ you said, ‘This is what’s left, and I love it.’ You said that it was better than sex.”
A wan smile crossed her face. She gave a tiny shrug. “I can’t deny it, and why should I? Yes, Frank and I have had a sexless marriage. So what? Many ‘conventional’ marriages evolve into that anyway. And those folks don’t have our private world to fall back on, our retreat, our sanctuary. Those folks don’t have the magic of Frank’s fingers to get them through their lonely nights.”
I nodded, recalling, “On Monday, when Neil suggested that Frank should open a massage service, you shook your fist, telling us, ‘He’d better not.’ Then Frank assured everyone—you and us—that he had ‘only one client.’ He called the spa the ‘glue’ of your marriage. Just now, you called the spa your ‘sanctuary.’ You do indeed think of it as a sanctuary, a holy place, don’t you, Cynthia?”
Through a wistful, far-off look, she answered, “I do indeed.”
I asked, “So it angers you to know that Frank has violated that sanctuary?”
“You better believe it,” she told me without hesitation.
“Did it also anger you when you first figured it out?”
Now she hesitated. “I’m not sure what you’re asking, Mark. I first found out about it last night—when Sheriff Pierce phoned.”
“Sorry, but I doubt that.” I didn’t need my notes. I didn’t need my pen. But I did feel like having another bite of prune Danish. So I put Cynthia through the agony of waiting several seconds while I fed myself, before telling her, “Sometime earlier this summer, you figured out that Frank was fooling around. Then you figured out a way to kill his lover. And the beauty, the supreme irony, of your plan is that your victim died at the hands of Frank himself, making your husband not only an unwitting accomplice, but also the apparent culprit.” Reaching for my coffee, I asked, “Essentially, that’s it, right?”
Her gaunt stare now made her appear even more haggard than when she’d arrived. Breaking eye contact with me, she shook her head fiercely. “No, I had no idea this was happening. For God’s sake, I was out of town when the boy was killed.”
“Sure,” I said, “and that’s what makes it all so slick. Everything points to Frank. And while Frank admits to giving Jason an erotic massage on the day he died, Frank also insists that he did not infect witch hazel with the mushroom toxins that killed the boy. Minutes ago, you yourself said that Frank couldn’t be the killer, and on that point, I agree with you. But if Frank didn’t do it, Cynthia, it had to be you.”
“You’re out of your mind.” She sat back, now more angry than defensive.
“Doug doubted me too, when I started piecing this together last night after he’d arrested Frank. But Doug hadn’t visited your spa on Monday, when I got the grand tour. I noticed some scented witch hazel among the other massage supplies, and that’s what eventually led me to suspect Frank. Later last night, though, I recalled something else that was said during my tour. Frank mentioned how much he enjoyed honing his massage skills on a loving partner, and in return, ‘Cynthia provides the setting, buys the equipment, and keeps up with the supplies.’ ”
Though the implication was clear enough, Cynthia bluffed, “So?”
I detailed the likely sequence of events: “So sometime this summer, probably a few weeks ago, you checked the supplies and noticed that they were being used much more quickly than before. Since you were supposedly Frank’s one and only massage client, you drew the obvious conclusion that he was indulging in frequent midweek sessions with someone else during your absences. Your knowledge of mushrooms is equal to Frank’s, as are your lab skills, so you had ample savvy to create a toxic tincture of witch hazel, leaving it for Frank to use on his secret lover during your stay in Green Bay last week. Returning on Saturday, you simply switched the infected astringent with a fresh bottle. Over the weekend, you doubtless enjoyed several loving treatments under Frank’s magic hands, secure in the knowledge that he’d used those same hands to scrag your competition—without even knowing it.”
Cynthia looked from me to the sheriff, then to Lucy, then back to me. “That’s ridiculous,” she said flatly. “Prove it.”
I checked my watch. “We’re working on it.”
Pierce checked his watch. “Cynthia, at Mark’s urging, I’ve secured warrants to search for any evidence linking you to the tainted witch hazel—fly agaric mushrooms, any form of the toxins choline and muscarine, or the infected alcohol itself. Confident that you’d arrive here promptly at eight-fifteen this morning, we arranged to execute the warrants at eight-thirty precisely. One minute from now, police officers in Green Bay and my own deputies here in Dumont will begin searching your office, lab, and apartment in Green Bay, as well as your Dumont home and your car. If we turn up the evidence we think we’ll find, I’ll be informed with a phone call—very soon—and you will be arrested, charged with murder, and prosecuted to the fullest. If, however, in the few seconds remaining, you choose to cooperate with this investigation and assist us in solving the crime, you may find the whole ordeal a bit easier.” Pierce checked his watch again. “It’s eight-thirty. Well, Cynthia?”
Both Lucy and I had our pens poised. The tape was rolling. The metaphorical clock was ticking. Cynthia stared numbly at the speaker-phone in the center of the table. A full minute passed, feeling like ten. No one spoke.
The phone rang.
Pierce reached, then paused to repeat, “Well, Cynthia?”
She raised her head to eye him defiantly. Was she clinging to some last-ditch hope that he might be bluffing?
He was not. The phone rang again, and he punched the flashing button. “This is Pierce.”
“Hi, Sheriff. Jim Johnson.” I recognized the name and voice of the deputy who’d met us at the Thrush residence on Friday night. “I think we’ve got—”
“Wait!”
“Hold on,” Pierce told his deputy. Turning, he asked, “Yes, Cynthia?”
She knew that further denials would be futile, further stalling was pointless. Through dry, sticky lips, she said weakly, “It’s…in the car…the witch hazel, the suspension of mushroom toxins. The bottle’s in the trunk of my car, parked in front of this building.” Then she seemed to wither in her chair.
Pierce turned to the phone. “Did you get that, Jim?”
“Yes, Sheriff. We found it.”
“Handle with care. That’s the murder weapon. Send it out for analysis. Thanks, Jim.” Pierce punched another button, disconnecting.
Cynthia had begun murmuring something.
Pierce asked, “What’s that, Cynthia?”
She looked up at us with swollen eyes. “I didn’t mean to kill him, I swear to God. I didn’t even know who it was. I assumed it was a man, but I didn’t even know that, not for sure. I wanted to make him sick, to teach them both a lesson. It was meant to be a… a ‘dirty trick,’ that’s all. Poisoning from fly agaric is rarely lethal—how was I to know it was just a kid, a kid with a bad cold?” She broke down, weeping into her hands.
Pierce, Lucy, and I exchanged a silent round of troubled looks, resigned to what would follow.
Pierce cleared his throat, recited Cynthia’s rights, then stood. “Come on, Cynthia. Let’s go now. You need some rest—and a good lawyer.”
Nodding, she stood.
Lucy and I rose as well. We followed as Pierce escorted Cynthia out of my office and began leading her through the newsroom. At a high sign from Lucy, one of our staff photographers stepped forward and, with strobe flashing, captured the dramatic exit that would grace tomorrow’s front page.
Though my promise not to sensationalize the story was merely part of a ruse, intended to trap a killer, I still felt compelled to honor it. The Geldens and the Thrushes would suffer only the humiliation they had brought upon themselves. The Register would stick to the facts.
I grinned. There was no way to tame this story. It didn’t need trumped-up headlines, cheap innuendo, or other tabloid tricks.
Tomorrow’s front page would be, in a word, sensational.
EPILOGUE
One Week Later
OUR TOWN’S PAIN
Moving beyond a recent tragedy, we can learn lessons of tolerance
By MARK MANNING
Publisher, Dumont Daily Register
AUG. 16, DUMONT WI—THE death of Jason Thrush two Fridays ago and the revelation of sordid circumstances leading to the tragedy have deeply bruised the public psyche of the town we call home. Though these emotional wounds are still fresh, it is time to place these events within a broader perspective.
Pedophilia is not a “gay perversion.” Such behavior, prohibited by both instinct and law, is no more common among homosexuals than among heterosexuals. The gay community, in fact, is especially quick to condemn any infraction of this taboo.
Which makes recent events all the more distressing. There is no defense for Frank Gelden’s violation of public trust. As a teacher, a mentor of youth, he has not only harmed his young victims; he has besmirched the gay community and betrayed Dumont at large.
Still, a measure of understanding is in order. Gelden’s actions with Jason Thrush were motivated by no intent to harm the boy. To the contrary, Gelden was motivated by misplaced passions confused with love. Similarly, when Cynthia Dunne-Gelden discovered her husband’s illicit affair and plotted her now well-known revenge, she too acted out of passion, neither knowing her victim nor intending to kill.
Sadly, though, one boy is now dead. One man is now disgraced, with his career abruptly ended and his future uncertain before the law. And one woman’s happy life is now consumed by day-today remorse as she awaits trial on manslaughter charges.
As a fair-minded community, can we judge these individuals? In this instance, judge we must.
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