Name Games

by Michael Craft

  I explained to him, “The known facts of the case fit together with unerring precision. We have, I’m afraid, ample evidence to accuse Grace of murder.”

  Her sniffling mushroomed into a single loud sob, then subsided.

  “Let’s review the rest of it,” I told the group. “Last Sunday morning, in this room, we found Carrol Cantrell’s body, apparently strangled. His extremities were blue; his neck was marked with abrasion wounds. A wrinkled silk scarf, the apparent murder weapon, was found snagged on the wooden banister outside. This pointed to Bruno Hérisson as the obvious suspect.

  “Then, on Monday, a file was discovered on the victim’s laptop, an extortion note intended to cast suspicion on Doug Pierce. Since Doug knew that he didn’t kill Cantrell, we could assume the note was bogus—somebody planted it there. This development led us to suspect both Dan Kerr and Harley Kaiser.

  “On Thursday, the coroner raised a new possibility—the victim may not have died from strangulation, but from anaphylactic shock triggered by an allergic reaction to nuts. Miriam Westerman shot to the top of our list.

  “Finally, on Friday, the coroner raised the further possibility of poisoning by succinylcholine, which raised my suspicions of you, Dr. Tenelli.”

  “Me?” said the doctor, astounded. “You’ve gone goofy, Manning. You’re running in circles like a dog chasing its tail.”

  “Sorry, Ben. Not to cast aspersions on you, but everything fit. What’s more, the only other person we knew of who might have access to the drug was Grace, but we assumed she had no motive to kill Cantrell. Now we know otherwise. She was bent on avenging the death of her nephew. And here’s how she did it:

  “A trained pharmacist, Grace was devastated decades ago when her family-owned drugstore succumbed to competition from the Walgreens chain and closed its doors. She helped oversee the dismantling of Lord’s Rexall, storing a garageful of paraphernalia directly beneath this room, where there’s a locked refrigerator, an old Kelvinator. Stowed within it, I’m sure, is a supply of succinyl, kept potent all these years.

  “Enter Carrol Cantrell. His days were numbered when he arrived in Dumont on that Thursday morning. Within three days, Grace had had ample time to observe her intended victim and to fabricate an intricate web of confusion that would mask his true cause of death.

  “So on Sunday morning, she entered the coach house on some pretext—perhaps to tidy up her guest’s room—and in the process, she pricked his thigh with a syringe she had loaded with a deadly dose of succinyl, downing him within seconds. When he was debilitated, helpless, and dying, she garroted him with a silk scarf from his collection, recognizing the scarf as a gift from his business rival, Bruno Hérisson. Producing Cantrell’s neck wounds when he was at the point of death, she created a set of symptoms that convincingly suggested strangulation.

  “But Grace wasn’t through. She then injected him with his own EpiPen, casting double confusion on the cause of death and leading the investigation on another stray tangent.

  “Finally, creating a third red herring, she called upon her computer skills to add a bogus extortion note to the files on Cantrell’s laptop, implicating Doug, whom she’d seen at the coach house several times. The document was oddly worded, referring to a ‘dalliance’ between Doug and the victim, a term that struck us as highly peculiar. I knew I’d recently heard someone use it, or a variant of it, and now I recall the incident vividly. On the Thursday morning when I first met Grace, she told Glee and me about the miniature drugstore she was building, and we asked to see it. ‘There’s no time to dally, not now,’ she told us, because Cantrell was due to arrive any minute.

  “Even though we concluded from the beginning that the extortion note was a fake, a plant, it accomplished its purpose, deflecting suspicion from the real killer by attempting to frame Doug. More important, it wrenched the investigation itself, as Doug felt obligated to withdraw from it.”

  I fell silent, having stated my case exhaustively and, to my mind, conclusively. While I spoke, the group of listeners had drifted from the rocking chair, seating themselves about the room, pondering the facts. Only Ben Tenelli remained with Grace, whose tears had dried on an expressionless face. Tenelli told her, “Don’t worry, Grace. Manning tells a good story, but remember, he’s a writer. He may have crafted a clever plot, but what he still lacks is evidence. He has nothing to link you to this crime.”

  Stepping toward them, I said flatly, “Doug can obtain a warrant—tonight—to examine the contents of the locked refrigerator downstairs in the garage. If that search reveals possession of succinylcholine, any featherweight prosecutor could build a winning case on the basis of strong circumstantial evidence.”

  Grace looked at me, then at Tenelli, then her gaze fell to her lap. Tenelli retreated from the rocking chair, flumping into a seat at the table.

  Again I dropped to one knee, leaning in close to her. She looked especially tiny and shrunken, surrounded by the maple spindles of the rocker. Taking her hands in mine, I said, “It might have worked, Grace, if we’d failed to fathom your motive. You hid your pain well all these years. Maybe it was just dumb luck that I crossed paths again with Rascal Tyner this week, but even if I hadn’t, the connection would have clicked eventually.”

  She raised her head and asked, with genuine curiosity, “Why?”

  “Something has been troubling me for days, and I just now figured it out. On the morning I met you, you were cleaning some things out of the coach house, getting ready for Cantrell’s visit. You explained that you didn’t think the king of miniatures would be interested in pondering ‘the Lord family’s sentimental old bric-a-brac’ So Glee and I helped you carry these things down to the garage—I carried the photo of Ward. Otherwise, though, the boxes contained what I’d call ‘junk,’ nothing of sentimental value.

  “Two days later, when I visited Cantrell up here with Miriam Westerman and Harley Kaiser, I noticed the dresser—that one.” I pointed. Everyone in the room turned to look as I continued, “I noticed right away that something seemed to be missing, something that had been hanging on the wall above it. Naturally, I presumed that it was the photo of Ward that was gone. Still, the whole tableau bothered me, and now I know why.

  “First, the dresser is cluttered with knickknacks, snapshots, and other memorabilia—stuff that certainly qualifies as ‘sentimental old bric-a-brac,’ which would have been removed if you’d been speaking truthfully on Thursday. In fact, though, the only item of sentimental value that had been taken from the room was the enlarged picture of Ward—because Cantrell would have recognized it.

  “Second, the missing photo of Ward had hung there between candles, as if enshrined on an altar. It should have struck me then and there that your devotion to the boy had a passionate edge. And I’ll tell you this, Grace: though what you’ve done is wrong, I most certainly understand your passion.”

  In the silence of the room, I smiled, trying to coax one in return.

  Grace sniffled, flicking the crust of a dried tear from her lashes. “Thank you, Mark,” she told me, patting my hand, returning the smile. “All right,” she added with a wan little chuckle, “you got me.”

  Roxanne rolled her eyes.

  I stood. My knees were killing me.

  As for Grace, the crisis had passed, and she now appeared serene—shot, but serenely so. She told everyone, “Yes, Mark got it right, the whole dismal story. I did indeed love Ward. I still do. With a passion—I guess that’s the right word. When Ward moved to California with my brother’s family, I grieved that I’d lost him. Little did I know how prophetic that grief would prove to be. Losing Ward was the worst chapter of my life, far worse than losing the drugstore. Because of the circumstances of Ward’s death—the AIDS, the pornography—the whole tragedy was never acknowledged by the family. My God, there wasn’t even a funeral. The wound just festered. There was no ‘closure.’ Well, there’s certainly ‘closure’ now—I killed Carrol Cantrell with an injection of succinylcholine, just as Mark sai
d. I went too far. I know that. But what’s done is done.” She paused, then added, “For whatever it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

  Both of my editors, Lucy and Glee, were engaged in some frantic note-taking at the desk, preparing tomorrow’s headline story.

  Neil sat with Roxanne on the edge of the bed, his comforting arm slung over her shoulder as they listened to Grace’s confession.

  Tenelli remained seated at the table, shaking his head in somber disbelief.

  I reminded the little woman in the rocking chair, “You’ve cast suspicion on a number of people, Grace. But the person you’ve truly hurt is Doug.”

  “Mark”—Pierce stepped toward me—“don’t.”

  “No, Mark is right,” said Grace, rising from the chair, stepping a single pace toward us. “Douglas, I am so very sorry. I’ve always been fond of you, and I was reluctant to implicate you in the crime, but I needed someone to be the object of the extortion note I planted, and well, I’d actually seen you visit the coach house at night. But believe me, Doug, I had no idea that you and Carrol were in fact having a dalliance. I assumed you would easily clear yourself, but instead, it seems I’ve actually hurt your chances in the election. I didn’t mean to—what?—push you out of the closet. I didn’t even know you were in a closet.” She covered her mouth with her fingertips.

  “Grace,” said Pierce, heaving a sigh, “you may have done me a favor. I can handle the ‘outing’—not that I appreciate being accused of murder.”

  Stepping toward him, she said, “Well, Douglas—do your duty.”

  He hesitated. “Grace, I can’t tell you how difficult—”

  “Posh now. You know what needs to be done, Sheriff. How does it go? ‘You have the right to remain silent’?”

  Roxanne rolled her eyes again.

  And Pierce recited Grace’s rights.

  EPILOGUE

  Six Weeks Later

  IT’S A SQUEAKER!

  Local voters return Douglas Pierce to office by a razor-thin margin

  Election results compiled by the Register’s staff Dumont Daily Register

  NOV. 8, DUMONT WI—In Dumont County’s most closely watched local election, Douglas Pierce appeared headed for a narrow victory in his bid to secure reelection as sheriff. As the Register went to press in Wednesday’s early-morning hours, Pierce maintained a slim lead over his opponent, Lieutenant Daniel Kerr. They were separated by a margin of less than one-half of one percent.

  Pierce overcame a flood of negative publicity tainting his campaign when he was falsely implicated in the September 17 murder of Carrol Cantrell. Though the allegations proved groundless, circumstances led Pierce to a public acknowledgment of his homosexuality.

  The Register endorsed Pierce early in the campaign, maintaining its endorsement throughout the scandal. Public opinion, however, has shifted radically since the murder, first swinging against Pierce when the news broke, then favoring him with a sympathetic backlash when the crime was resolved. In the weeks since, debate has focused on whether Dumont County is willing to reelect an openly gay sheriff.

  “It’s in the hands of the voters now,” Pierce said at an election-night gathering of supporters. “I’m confident that the people of Dumont will prove themselves tolerant and fair-minded, ignoring personal issues that simply have no bearing on county government.”

  In Dumont County, city voters have traditionally taken a more liberal stand at the polls, while the county’s rural voters tend to be more conservative. Pierce garnered a comfortable lead in the city, with all precincts counted. His opponent led slightly in outlying areas, where some communities still use paper ballots and are slow to report.

  Though a final count in the close race may not be available till after daybreak, the Register is sufficiently confident in Pierce’s lead to declare him the winner.

  Wednesday, November 8

  WHAT’S IN A NAME? That’s the question that keeps popping to mind as I look back at events that marked the last couple of months. Names—their meaning, their power, their hidden allusions—names played an unexpected role in the story that began that Thursday morning in mid-September.

  Nine days later, when the mystery of Carrol Cantrell’s death was solved, some of those name games ended. We named Cantrell’s killer. We named the hypocrisy of Dr. Tenelli’s maneuvers to rid Dumont County of porn. And I discovered that the beautiful boyman pictured playing with his dog, enshrined in a gilt frame, had not one name, but two: Ward Lord and Rascal Tyner.

  The events of that week in September left other riddles, other name games, that could not be resolved so neatly. I still wondered about my fatherly role toward Thad, unsure that I was fit for it and even less certain what to name it. I still fretted over Neil’s temporary residence in the house on Prairie Street—his project at Quatro Press would wrap up before winter, and by plan, he would return to his architectural firm in Chicago. Is there a name for such a relationship, a “marriage” restricted to alternating weekend visits? And I wondered, along with every other voter in Dumont County, whether an openly gay sheriff named Douglas Pierce, facing reelection, could overcome the latent prejudices of Middle America and find victory in the common sense of ordinary people.

  Now, at least, I knew the answer to that last question. It was around seven o’clock on the Wednesday morning after the election. The November dawn was predictably cold and bleak—the sun had not yet risen, and a cloud-clogged sky would hold back the daylight for another hour. Indoors, lamps burned as if at night, day’s end, but in fact we three were coursing headlong into a new day, one that Thad, Neil, and I each greeted with special enthusiasm.

  Gathered in the kitchen, we clucked about the election, giddy and a bit groggy in the wake of Pierce’s narrow victory—his “mandate” of barely a hundred votes was now official. Thad, not yet dressed but wearing a long, loose pair of knit shorts that reminded me of bloomers, was busy spreading his usual peanut butter on toast. Neil stood at the counter in his robe, adding a few things to the shopping list. “Don’t worry,” he told me. “Chee-Zees have graduated to the top of the list, along with bread and milk.” Seated at the table, I laughed while studying page one, drinking coffee, fully dressed for the office. It had been a long night, both in the newsroom and at Pierce’s campaign party, but I needed to get back to the Register early—it would be a hectic day, with follow-up stories on winners and losers alike.

  The morning after an election always brings with it a sense of relief. Regardless of outcome, the tension and hype are over. That Wednesday morning, my sense of relief was tempered by an undercurrent of letdown. Though my friend had won his election, the adrenaline-rushed days of fighting the good fight were now past.

  By contrast, Thad was still on an emotional upswing. His energies had yet to peak, as his school play was now in the final week of production—Arsenic and Old Lace would open in two days, on Friday night. “So, you’re like coming, aren’t you?” he asked while scooting to the table with his toast and milk. “I can’t wait for you to see this—it’s great!”

  Though both Neil and I had seen Arsenic several times over, we’d never seen it with Thad as Dr. Einstein. I assured him, “We wouldn’t miss it.”

  Neil joined us at the table, asking Thad, “We won’t make you nervous, will we? If you’d prefer, we can skip opening night and come on Saturday.”

  Thad gulped some milk. “Nervous? Are you kidding? I want you in the audience. I’ve told the whole cast, ‘Mark and Neil will be there.’ I want them to meet you after the show.” He paused. Dead serious and a bit sheepish, he added, “I want to show you off.”

  Neil and I glanced at each other, astounded. There I was, still fretting over which label to apply to my relationship with this sixteen-year-old, still perplexed by the odd makeup of our household, when Thad suddenly taught me that he needed me. Not only that, he valued us, Neil and me. And he had no problem whatever in describing us to his friends—we were simply Mark and Neil. Period. I realized in that same instant that I
not only felt duty-bound to rear and protect Thad. I now understood something far more profound: I loved him.

  “Of course,” we told him. “We’ll be there.”

  Neil added, “You’re obviously enthused about the show. You must be ready.”

  “Mrs. Osborne says we are. Tonight is our last rehearsal—full final dress—complete with costumes, makeup, lights, and sound. She plans to give us Thursday night off, says the rest will do us good. Then Friday night, curtain up!”

  Wryly, I looked past Thad to tell Neil, “It seems the theater bug has truly bit.”

  “Big time,” Neil concurred.

  Thad asked him, “Will you run lines with me again tonight before rehearsal?”

  “You bet—that’s my job. I’d be offended if you asked anyone else.”

  The back door cracked open. “Any coffee left?” asked Pierce, stepping in. He’d been up all night, awaiting the final vote tally, then went directly from his victory party to the gym for his early-morning workout. He’d shaved and changed there, looking fresh for the day—his hair was still wet from the shower. Wearing that olive-colored, calf-length duster, he had the rugged look of an outback lawman. The bagged kringle he carried was so fresh, he must have waited for the bakery to ice it.

  We rose from our chairs with a chorus of congratulations. Neil gave Pierce a victory hug as Thad took the pastry and opened it on the table—its cream-cheese topping was still warm and glistening. Thad reacted to the sight of the big Danish as if it were covered with slime; though he’d matured in many ways during the months since I’d first met him, his adolescent tastes still found cream cheese repugnant. Laughing, I helped Pierce out of his coat and hung it in the back hall. Then the four of us settled around the table, one on each side of it.