Cute story, I thought. Sweet. And they made such an unlikely pair of friends. I’d certainly been surprised to see them yukking it up together outside the gas closet.
Breaking off a bit of cookie for Mister Puss, I asked Berta, “Can you tell me more about last Sunday at the clinic? When Glee showed up, Dr. Frumpkin had her thrown out. Then you went to look after her. What happened out there?”
“Well, first I had to get past Deputy Prick—pardon my French. He’s horsing around, locking the front door so Glee can’t get in again, and I tell him I want out. And he’s all hassled and giving me mouth, so I tell him, ‘If it’s such a big deal, I’ll just go get the sheriff.’ And that does it—he opens the door, tells me to have a nice day, but real snotty-like, then bangs it shut and locks me out.”
“He’s a charmer, all right,” I told Berta while making a note: Deputy Prick.
Berta continued, “So by the time I get outside, Glee’s gone. But then I notice her crazy pink car, still in the parking lot, so I go looking. And around the corner, back where you found us, she’s stomping around, mad as hell, yelling at a squirrel, if you can believe it. And I tell her, ‘Calm down, honey. Ain’t the end of the world,’ and she’s like, ‘That bastard, that asshole,’ or whatever, and I ask, ‘The deputy?’ and she says, ‘No—Frumpkin. He’s trying to get me fired.’ And I’m thinking, Glee’s probably right, but I tell her, ‘Now, now, you’ll think of something.’ And she gets quiet.”
I prompted Berta: “And …”
“And Glee finally asks me, sorta secret-like, ‘Any ideas?’ And I tell her, ‘Yeah, I have an idea: I think we need a joint.’ And Glee starts laughing, and she’s like, ‘Amen, sister!’ and then”—Berta crossed her arms—“that’s what we did.”
I laughed at the memory of spotting the two of them sitting on the log. “Well,” I conceded, “it certainly calmed her down.”
Mister Puss yawned. I put a drop of milk on his nose and watched him stretch his tongue to lick it. I kneaded his spine near the base of his tail; he started purring.
“And the rest,” said Berta, “you saw the rest, when Sheriff Simms came out and tried that closet door.”
While scratching a few more notes, I asked, “You yourself never tried the door or entered the gas closet?”
“Of course not. Why would I?”
“And neither did Glee?”
Berta shook her head. “Not while I was with her.”
“And you were with her from the time you found her out there until the time when everyone else came out?”
“Well, no. I had to go get the pot.”
Mister Puss shot me a look.
I asked Berta, “So you left Glee alone for a while? How long?”
Berta explained, “I was gone maybe twenty minutes, ten minutes each way. We keep a teensy stash here at the house. Mary likes a little hit now and then.”
Sounding perhaps too incredulous, I asked, “Mary does pot?”
Berta reminded me, “She also did FlabberGas. But I think she’s kicked that one.” Touché.
I struggled to gather my thoughts. “So … when you returned to the clinic, you found Glee where you’d left her, correct?”
“No. When I got back, I went around to the side of the building, but she wasn’t there. I thought maybe she’d managed to get indoors again, so I walked back to the front and tried the door, but it was locked, like before. Her car was still there, so I returned to the side of the building, and there she was, walking over toward the log.”
I asked carefully, “She was walking toward the log … from where?”
“Well, at first I thought she must have come from that metal door back there—nothing else made sense. But I pestered till she told me. Nature called.”
I winced. “That’s what she told you—‘nature called’?”
“No, Mr. Norris. She said she had to take a leak. And I said it made a pretty picture—her in those fancy heels and Sunday dress, tromping around in the back woods, sprinkling the pinecones. That’s when the laughing jag started; the pot kept it going.”
Mister Puss seemed to enjoy the story, purring merrily.
But I was anything but amused.
My quandary regarding Glee Savage had worsened. When I had visited her on Wednesday, my intention was to neatly dispatch any suspicions of her possible guilt, but by the end of that visit, she had left me with a convincing hypothetical argument that she might have actually done the deadly deed.
Today, visiting Berta, I’d been inclined to be swayed by a different hypothetical, the notion that an impertinent housekeeper, struggling with finances, could be capable of scheming to murder a rich, childless widow and then becoming the new lady of the Questman mansion. But now, sitting across from Berta in the kitchen, I was all but certain she had not been responsible for such devilry.
Logistically, it didn’t make sense that Berta would stoop to Sunday’s crime when she’d learned the day before that Mary had bowed out of the gas treatment. Plus, today’s conversation left me with a more informed view of Berta and her relationship with Mary: Berta was not only Mary’s cook and housekeeper, but since the death of their husbands, Berta and Mary had become companions, perhaps even pot buddies, in their adjustment to a later life that no longer included the security they had known in marriage.
However, the most significant takeaway from my conversation with Berta was the detail she’d supplied regarding her Sunday-afternoon encounter with Glee Savage outside the clinic, which further fueled my mounting suspicion of Glee. When Berta lost track of Glee that day, had Glee been responding to nature’s call? Or had she been responding to a different call, the call to vengeful mischief against Dr. Frumpkin, not in the woods, but in the gas closet?
Mary waltzed in through the back door. “Well, just look at you two,” she twittered, “having a cozy conversation in the kitchen.” She laid her purse on the table and set a shopping bag on one of the chairs. Mister Puss hopped onto the table and stepped over to the open bag, poking his head into it.
I stood. “Welcome back, Mary. This has really been helpful.” I gave her a kiss.
“Can I then assume that Sheriff Simms won’t be locking Berta up?”
“Highly doubtful,” I said.
“That’s nice.” She reached for one of the cookies and took a bite. With a subtle turn to Berta, she arched an inquisitive brow, which seemed to ask, Anything in these? Berta answered with the slightest shake of her head. Mary shrugged and continued eating.
Berta asked, “Would you like some milk with that, Mary?”
“No, dear. I’m fine, thanks.”
“Then I’d better get some work done,” said Berta. She cleared the milk from the table, thanked me for making time for her, and left the room.
Mary swooped up Mister Puss and sat at the table.
I sat again. “May I ask you something—about Berta?”
“Of course, Brody. Happy to be of help.”
“When Berta drove you to the surgery center last Sunday, did she already know that you’d decided not to be Dr. Frumpkin’s guinea pig?”
“I’m sure of it. Saturday afternoon, I was having trouble reaching Dr. Frumpkin, and I had to go out, so I asked Berta to try phoning him with my decision.”
Good, I thought—that confirms what Berta told me, and it eliminates any conceivable motive for Berta to have caused what happened. I asked Mary, “Did you tell Berta why you were backing out?”
“I told her Mister Puss warned me not to go.” She rubbed the scruff of the cat’s neck.
Good—that, too, was consistent with Berta’s narrative. I took the questioning one step further: “When Mister Puss advised you to back out, what reason did he give?”
She smiled down at Mister Puss, who purred. “He said it was just a feeling.”
Her explanation made me wonder if in fact it was Mary herself who’d had the feeling she should back out. Had she been projecting her own reservations about the gas treatment onto her cat? Or did
she really have, as she claimed, some sort of psychic connection with the animal? Not that I believed—even for argument’s sake—that there was any possibility Mister Puss could actively, independently communicate with her.
She said, “Can I ask you a big favor, Brody?”
“Anything, Mary.”
“This coming Monday, I need to be in Appleton that afternoon. I’m on the women’s league of one of the university councils, and they’re having a little program, a tea or something, honoring me for something—I forget what—and it’s a bit of a drive, so Berta’s going to take me. We’ll be away for several hours, and even though Mister Puss can look after himself pretty well, I’d rather not leave him alone that long. So I was wondering if you’d mind having some company that afternoon.” Mary gave me a sweet, pleading smile. So did her cat.
“I wouldn’t mind at all,” I told them. In fact, I welcomed the opportunity to spend some one-on-one time with the chatty Mister Puss. And I was eager to get an earful.
Yeah, right.
Chapter 8
I asked Marson, “Did you actually see Berta’s husband eat worms?”
Marson was sampling one of the appetizers he’d prepared for our Saturday dinner at the loft with Dahr Ahmadi. He grimaced, swallowed, and set down the remaining half of a large pesto-stuffed mushroom. “Did you have to bring that up now?”
“Sorry, bad timing.” I reached for the mushroom and finished it off.
“Yes,” said Marson, wiping his oily fingers on a kitchen towel he had tucked through his belt, “I saw it happen, about four years ago. I was at Mary’s home one morning, giving her a private presentation of my proposed plans for Questman Center. She loved everything, so I was on cloud nine, and then she asked me to stay for lunch, which turned out to be a heavenly carrot soup prepared by none other than surly Berta herself. While I was enjoying another spoonful—so warm and rich, with an aggressive spark of nutmeg—I glanced through the window to the front lawn, and that’s when I saw it … happen.” Marson gagged and lifted a hand to his throat, as if reliving a horrid sense memory. Recovering, he said, “I think his name was Snook, of all things.”
“Right, he went by his last name, Snook. Which is Berta’s name, too.”
Marson crossed his arms and gave me an unbelieving look. “Berta Snook?”
I assured him, “I was a bit floored, myself.”
Getting back to business, Marson asked, “How are the mushrooms?”
“They’re great. They’ll be perfect with cocktails.”
“I just had a thought.” Marson looked stricken. “What if Dahr doesn’t drink? Sarah said he’s Iranian. Sheriff Simms implied he was Muslim. I think they don’t drink.”
“Most don’t,” I agreed. “But I’m pretty sure he had a glass of champagne at Mary’s last week.”
“But it could have been ginger ale.”
With a laugh, I reminded my husband, “We have ginger ale.” I found it not only funny, but also endearing, that Marson seemed a tad nervous about hosting Dahr Ahmadi in our home. And in truth, I shared a sense of uncertain expectations. The dinner date was my idea. But why, exactly, had I wanted to do this?
At the most obvious level, Dahr was a handsome, professional, middle-aged gay man—a sparse commodity in small-town Dumont—so both Marson and I were inclined to know him better and perhaps draw him into our circle of friends.
At a baser level, I had to admit (to myself, if not to Marson) that Dahr’s physical attractiveness had an erotic edge, as if his bodily presence transmitted a secret signal, a coded query, wondering if I was interested. We each knew that the other was off limits, as I was married to Marson, while Dahr had apparently reached some level of understanding, if not outright commitment, with Dr. Frumpkin. Nonetheless, in the brief, limited interaction I’d had with Dahr, there had been a spontaneous energy, an undertone of something that felt a lot like temptation. Even Frumpkin himself had tuned in to it, as demonstrated when he playfully warned me, “No poaching, Brody,” which only intensified Dahr’s allure as forbidden fruit. To be clear: I was not “looking.” I was not open to seduction. But flirtation was a subtle game that offered a harmless lift with little risk of fallout.
And finally, at a higher and more pragmatic level, I had wanted to invite Dahr to dinner because he was still an undefined but active cipher in the mystery of Jason Ward’s death. Dr. Frumpkin had insisted that Dahr would “never harm a fly,” but Sheriff Simms had expressed his doubts and challenged me to prove him wrong. The clock was ticking. The past week had slipped away with scant investigative progress, and it was now only nine days until early voting would begin in Dumont County.
While planning our dinner for three, Marson—ever the supportive spouse—had suggested, “I’ll cook, Sherlock. You’ll have your hands full with the suspect.”
Grrring.
Now, at seven on Saturday, the sputtering old bell at the loft’s street door announced the arrival of our guest. “That must be your suspect,” said Marson, doffing his oven mitts.
“Stop that,” I told him, pecking his cheek, as we crossed from the kitchen to the door together.
Marson swung the door wide. “Dahr! Good evening! Come on in!”
Stepping inside, Dahr presented a gift bag containing a bottle of good champagne.
Marson and I shared a grin—no ginger ale tonight. We shook hands with our guest, then hugged him.
“This is so great of you guys, having me over,” said Dahr. “And look at this place—wow—who’d have thought, in Dumont?”
My initial reaction to him was reconfirmed: what a swell guy. I’m easy.
When I had phoned to invite Dahr on Thursday, I reached him at home on his cell number, as Dr. Frumpkin’s office was still closed in the aftermath of Jason Ward’s death. Dahr answered at once and, from the lilt of his voice, seemed delighted to hear from me. But I was concerned—in fact, fretting—that the dinner invitation from Marson and me, a couple, might be interpreted by Dahr to include Frumpkin, who would then totally dominate our evening together, which would spoil its purpose.
To my boundless relief, Dahr said, “Saturday is perfect for me. Francis is a wreck, poor guy, and he mentioned something about spending that evening with Sarah. Anyway, I could use a night out.” I asked if he was okay with beef—you just never know these days—and he said he looked forward to it.
In closing, he asked what he could bring, and I told him, perhaps with a tinge of something unintended, “Just yourself.”
And now, there he stood.
I watched him from the kitchen as Marson pointed out a few features of the loft. I had seen Dahr only twice before—when we met at Mary’s the previous Friday, during the pitch session, and then again on Sunday, the day of the fateful demo. On Friday, he had dressed nicely in casual office attire, having come from his duties in Frumpkin’s practice. Then, Sunday, on the job as nurse practitioner at the clinic, he’d dressed smartly for that role in a crisp white lab coat, accessorized with his stethoscope.
Tonight, though, he sported a different look altogether. On this Saturday evening, visiting the home of two gay men, well away from the job—and away from his boss—Dahr wore all black. Tight slacks. Silky shirt. Leather blazer. Plus the tasteful punch of some silver bling, including a heavy chain bracelet. Combined with his dark hair and tan complexion, the total package was a jaw-dropper. When I first met him, I’d instantly recognized a pleasing hint of the exotic in his features and bearing, but tonight, he’d amped it up. Tonight, by the way he presented himself, by the way he walked, without even saying a word, he projected a teasing aura of danger. Not a physical, threatening danger—but a sexual tension that was palpable.
Marson sensed it, too. He almost giggled when asking Dahr if he’d care to see the sleeping loft on the mezzanine.
“Well, yeah,” Dahr answered, “I’d love to see it.”
And up the spiral stairs they went. Marson led the way. I watched from below, enjoying the view too much as Dahr
followed.
While they gabbed up there—Marson was showing him my large rendering of “the perfect house” that hung near our bed—I busied myself arranging the tray of appetizers on a massive low table that anchored the conversation area of the main room. I called up to Dahr, “Do you want me to open the champagne?”
He stepped over to the edge of the mezzanine and looked down at me. Great smile. “No, Brody,” he said, “that’s for you and Marson to enjoy later.”
I told him, “We’ll be having red wine with dinner. What would you like now?”
“Surprise me.” He winked.
Oh, honey.
I surprised him with a basic Scotch on the rocks, splash of soda, twist. The colder weather always sent a signal for me to switch to darker cocktails, so I poured Scotch for myself as well. Marson’s taste in such matters knew no season, however, and he began the evening with his usual martini.
Dahr was saying, “The new house will be fantastic, Brody. I can’t wait to see it.”
“It ought to be presentable soon—in a year or so,” I quipped.
Marson said, “We’ll invite you to the housewarming.”
“I’ll mark my calendar,” said Dahr.
We were seated around the low table at the front of the loft, with Marson and me across from each other on a pair of loveseats; Dahr sat perpendicular to us on a tufted leather bench, looking across the table toward the wall of windows on the street.
Between the two center windows, a three-foot section of brick wall rose from the floor to the twenty-foot ceiling, resembling a chimney, so Marson had designed a minimalist mantel and surround of feathered slate, resembling a fireplace—baldy artificial, yet wonderfully evocative. It contained several tiered rows of fluttering pillar candles, also fakes, but forgivably theatrical. Atop the mantel were a few homey curios, including a clear apothecary jar containing a pound or two of intricately patterned castor beans, courtesy of Glee Savage. Above the mantel hung a tall antique mirror. From the ceiling, centered over the low table, hung a huge Mexican chandelier of punched tin, casting playful starlight about the room. And beyond the windows, streetlights glared in the black October night.
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