FlabberGassed

by Michael Craft

  Mary continued, “But I think it’s just because she played rough with him.” Rubbing the cat’s ears, she asked him, “Is that the problem?”

  Mister Puss purred loudly.

  Brody set down his spoon and turned to Mary, asking, “You heard Mister Puss call Olivia a ‘sasspot’?”

  “Twice, in fact. He told me, ‘There’s something wrong with that sasspot.’” She laughed merrily. “Such a droll expression, isn’t it? Sasspot—I haven’t heard that in years.”

  “I have,” said Brody. He looked at Mister Puss, who had stopped purring and stared back at him.

  “Well, then,” said Mary. “You know what they say: hearing is believing.”

  Brody stood. He glanced over his notepad, then closed it, zipping the portfolio. “Forgive me, Mary, but I need to run.”

  “Oh, no—already?” she asked, standing as Mister Puss pounced to the floor.

  “Please thank Berta for me. I need to take care of something.” Brody grabbed his jacket and his notes, gave Mary a quick peck, and stepped briskly out to the hall.

  Mary scooped up the cat and followed Brody to the door. As he opened it, she said, “Be careful, Brody. And watch out for that nasty Deputy Kastle.”

  “Not him,” said Brody as he crossed the threshold. “He’s not my problem.”

  Mary watched him trot down the tile-bordered walkway to the street. Then she nudged the door closed while petting Mister Puss beneath his chin.

  The cat broke into a rolling purr.

  Chapter 13

  What a freaking weird day, and it was far from over.

  That Wednesday had begun routinely enough with a few hours of work at the office, where I mentioned to Marson that I couldn’t join him for lunch. “I have an appointment with Dr. Phelps, the veterinarian, and I’m not sure how long it’ll take.”

  “I hope it’s nothing serious, Brody,” said Marson, deeply concerned. “Hairballs?”

  Funny, yes. But it was no laughing matter when I left Phelps’s office and someone tried to replicate the FlabberGas murder by planting an open tank of laughing gas in my closed car. And it was no laughing matter when I narrowly escaped injury—or worse—and spotted Deputy Alex Kastle speeding away from the scene.

  So I rushed over to Mary Questman’s house, where I knew I’d find Sheriff Thomas Simms. It was no laughing matter when I reported to Simms what had happened, but then he couldn’t help laughing when I detailed my suspicions that Deputy Kastle had been the culprit behind the attempt on my life, which turned out to be yet another blind alley—a concoction of an architect’s overly creative sleuthing skills, pressed into service to help solve the original mystery of who had murdered Dr. Jason Ward.

  And although it should have been a laughing matter when Mary informed me that Mister Puss had called little Olivia a “sasspot,” I nearly choked on my carrot soup (and its aggressive spark of so-called nutmeg) when I realized that the cat had used the same unusual word in an earlier, verbatim conversation with me (pooh-poohed as the product of my so-called imagination). What—just what exactly—was I to make of this development?

  That quandary, however, was soon back-burnered by yet another laughing matter when Mary asked me if the sheriff and I were playing games—with our suspect grids. Which prompted me to ask these questions concerning our remaining field of possible killers: What did they know? And when did they know it?

  Drawing a new grid, focused solely on this pair of linked questions, I recalled a small detail, previously assumed insignificant and therefore dismissed. I recalled—with a jolt—what someone knew, and when. And it was no laughing matter.

  Now, around one o’clock, on this freaking weird day that was far from over, I got out of the car at the First Avenue offices of Miles & Norris and rushed inside to find Marson at his desk, tattering away at his keyboard.

  He looked up from the computer, smiling. “Hi there, kiddo.” Then he frowned. “What’s wrong?”

  When I had brought him up to date, he said, “Maybe it’s time to step back from this, Brody. Last week, when you signed on as Simms’s ‘sidekick,’ it was sort of a lark, a favor to Mary. But now, someone must think you’re getting too close to the truth. I’m a big believer in community involvement. And I think it’s great that you’re doing your bit. But suddenly, you’re in danger. As far as I’m concerned, that’s way beyond the call of civic duty. Let Simms wrap this up.”

  “But he’s nowhere near solving the murder, and he’s running out of time.”

  “That’s his job. It’s his problem.”

  I asked, “Is it? If Alex Kastle takes Simms’s job, then it’s our problem. Then sleepy little Dumont will be headed toward a zombie apocalypse.”

  “A valid point,” Marson admitted, “though you might be overstating the consequences.”

  We were sitting in his office with the door closed. He was still at his computer; I had perched near him on the edge of his desk; our legs touched. I told him, “I figured something out today, at Mary’s. Something clicked, and I don’t like it. And unfortunately, I’m in a far better position to get to the bottom of it than Simms is.”

  Marson placed his hand on my knee. “Explain, please.”

  I took a deep breath and held it for a moment. Then I stood, paced around to the front of Marson’s desk, and asked him, “Remember Saturday night—at the loft?”

  “Sure. We had Dahr over for dinner. Nice evening.”

  I nodded. “Right. And the purpose of that dinner was twofold. Aside from our wanting to get to know him, socially, as a friend, my underlying purpose was to sound him out about the murder. Simms had already expressed his suspicions of Dahr, whereas Dr. Frumpkin had told both Simms and me that Dahr ‘would never harm a fly.’ I wanted to believe Frumpkin and prove Simms wrong.”

  “And unless I’m mistaken, Dahr passed the test with flying colors.” Marson paused before adding, “He even gave you a doozy of a good-bye kiss.”

  “Yes, there was that.” I didn’t mention that I had since received more than one e-mail suggesting Dahr’s interest in taking that kiss to another level. I had not responded, hoping to defuse the sexual tension—both his and mine. Simply put, I had been avoiding him. “But now,” I told Marson, “I’m having second thoughts.”

  Marson sat back in his chair and folded his arms. With a soft smile, he said, “I’m listening, kiddo.”

  “Remember when Dahr was telling us about the nature of his relationship with Frumpkin?”

  “Indeed I do. It was rather more detailed than I expected.”

  “Right”—I laughed—“and one of those details, a seemingly minor one, slipped past me in the recitation of their sex habits. He was talking about the night before the murder. They had dinner at Frumpkin’s place, and then, afterward, they were ‘getting cozy, getting in the mood,’ but they were interrupted by a phone call from Sarah, with news that Mary Questman had backed out as guinea pig for the next day’s demo. This put Frumpkin in a dither, and it took them an hour to get their groove on again.”

  “Well,” said Marson, “I admire Dahr’s persistence, and presumably his stamina. Good for Francis Frumpkin—all’s well that ends well.”

  “But don’t you see?”

  “What?”

  I leaned across the desk toward Marson. “They knew. Dahr himself knew that Jason Ward would be the new guinea pig—the night before he was killed.”

  Marson shrugged. “So?”

  “Today at Mary’s, things fell together for me when I reviewed the field of suspects and asked myself, ‘What did they know, and when did they know it?’ Sheriff Simms has already determined that the killer must’ve rigged the gas lines the night before the demo. And that fact alone rules out some of the people we’ve considered: Glee Savage, Phelps the veterinarian, and maybe Deputy Kastle. Simms also concluded that the killer must’ve had a working knowledge of medical gases, which rules out Berta the housekeeper and Zakarian the rug man.”

  Marson asked, “So who’s lef
t?”

  “By my calculation, just three: Dr. Frumpkin, Sarah Frumpkin Ward—and Dahr.”

  Marson’s features wrinkled in thought. “Okay: All three of them had knowledge of gases. They all had access to the clinic the night before. And they all had knowledge that the new guinea pig was Jason. However: Sarah had no motive at all. And while Frumpkin might conceivably have wanted to settle a score between his son-in-law and his lover, he had far too much to lose. The murder has jeopardized his current practice, and it trashed his big plans for FlabberGas. Which leaves only … Dahr.”

  I summarized: “Dahr checks all the boxes, and everyone heard him tell the victim, ‘I know what I’m doing, Doctor.’”

  Marson let it all sink in. Then he told me, “Call Simms.”

  I shook my head.

  “Why not?”

  I was not inclined to explain to my husband why I felt the need to confront Dahr myself. I was confused by the feelings he had shown for me, and I felt guilty for the attraction I had felt for him in return. What’s more, I was shaken by the deadly mischief that had been plotted against me only a few hours ago. And I was angry that a man who had played with my emotions—and tickled my lust—had now apparently tried to kill me. I told Marson, “I don’t want to send Simms down another blind alley. If I’m wrong about this, why spread the shame?”

  “You’re playing with fire, kiddo.”

  Since Marson could not convince me that I should not confront Dahr, he suggested, “Don’t do it alone. I should be with you.”

  Actually, this made sense. Marson’s presence would surely put a damper on any amorous impulses Dahr might bring to our meeting. What’s more, if my suspicions were correct, and if Dahr felt suddenly accused and trapped … well, I didn’t much want to think about that. I told Marson, “Good idea.”

  He asked, “Maybe invite him over for a drink after work?”

  Another good idea. So I crossed the hall to my own office and sat down to write an e-mail. Subject line: Up for a drink?

  Hi there, Dahr.

  It’s been a hectic week, hasn’t it? And it’s only Wednesday! With the funeral over, I hope things are getting back to normal in Dr. Frumpkin’s office. Today has been anything but “normal” for me, though. Maybe you’d like to hear about it.

  How about a quick drink or two this evening at the loft? Anytime after five is fine. Let me know.

  Brody

  Dahr did not respond immediately—I assumed he was working at the clinic, busy with patients—but twenty minutes later, ping, his reply popped onto my screen.

  Dear Brody,

  What a pleasant surprise! So great to hear from you. Yes, absolutely, let’s do drinks after work. I want to run home for a quick shower first, so I’ll try to be there by six. Will it be “just us”?

  xoxox,

  Dahr

  I sent a brief response: Yes, just us—you, me, and Marson. See you at six.

  A moment later, ping: Great, got it. xoxox.

  I sent Marson a short message, letting him know the plan, which he confirmed. Then I sat back at my desk, wondering why Dahr thought it necessary to shower for a midweek cocktail hour. Was he compulsively clean? Or expecting more?

  The afternoon dragged. There was no shortage of projects needing my attention, but I was worn down by the day’s events, and my mind was adrift with questions and worries.

  Sheriff Simms phoned to let me know that, as expected, the only fingerprints found on the canister of nitrous oxide were my own. He asked if I felt the need for police protection, and I said, “Of course not, Thomas,” but I wasn’t so sure.

  Later, Marson popped over to my office, looking a bit ashen. I asked him, “Something wrong?”

  “I have a conflict,” he said sheepishly.

  I asked, “Man versus nature? Man versus machine?”

  He smirked. “No, wise guy. I’m needed on a conference call for the Oregon project at four o’clock—their time. Six here. And I’ll need to be at my desk.”

  “Oops.”

  “Do you want to reschedule with Dahr?”

  I checked my watch. “Sorta late for that. I’ll be fine.”

  “Are you sure?”

  I gave him a confident smile. “Of course I’m sure.” But I wasn’t.

  He said, “I’ll come home as soon as I can.”

  I wondered what Dahr would wear that evening. I wondered how he would react when he learned that Marson couldn’t join us. I wondered if he would become physically aggressive—wanting sex, or wanting to finish the failed plot that had begun with the nitrous oxide in my car, or perversely, wanting both sex and murder.

  Puttering in the kitchen, assembling a basic bar setup on the center island, I wondered what Dahr would want to drink. Checking the time, I wondered when he would arrive.

  Grrring.

  Six sharp. Yanked from my grim thoughts by the sputtering old bell at the loft’s street door, I wondered why Marson and I had never bothered to replace it with a more modern update—less authentic, perhaps, but decidedly less grating.

  When I opened the door, the sun had set, and I had not yet turned any lights on. My visitor stood silhouetted against the twilight. I said, “Good evening, Dahr.”

  “Good to see you, Brody. Thanks for asking me over.” He stepped inside, offering an easy hug. I smelled the leather of his jacket as he leaned close.

  I shut the door and flipped a nearby row of switches, which dispelled the gathering darkness. The last time Dahr had visited, he’d worn all black, but not tonight. His leather coat was not a tailored black blazer, as before, but a puffy brown bomber jacket with a shearling collar, worn to fend off the cold of a waning October in Wisconsin. He unzipped it and pulled a plaid wool muffler free from his neck.

  I offered to take them, and as I set them aside, he strolled toward the center of the main room. The rest of his clothes—button-down shirt, V-neck sweater, wide-wale corduroys—were not so mysterious or seductive as his previous outfit, but equally attractive, in a more cozy sort of way.

  In the dead quiet of the vast space, he looked about. “Marson’s not here?”

  “He needed to stay at the office for a conference call.” Fudging, I added, “He should be home any minute.”

  “Great,” said Dahr.

  I moved toward the kitchen. “What can I get you?”

  Dahr followed me to the makeshift bar. “Last time, you fixed me your ‘winter drink.’ Winter’s in the air tonight, so maybe the same—Scotch and soda, please.”

  His comment about winter tempted me to suggest that I could light the candles in the fireplace, but I quickly nixed that notion because of its overtly romantic overtones. Instead, I mixed our drinks, adding a twist of lemon peel to each, and then led Dahr to the conversation area at the front of the loft, in front of the dark fireplace, inviting him to sit.

  When he was settled on one of the loveseats, I moved to the one across from him and sat. I asked, “Are things getting back to normal at the office?”

  “Well, we’re open again, but it’s far from normal. We were closed for a week, and Jason’s gone, so things are pretty frantic now, making up for those missed appointments. Plus, everyone who comes in, they all talk about the murder and offer condolences—naturally—but it’s an unhappy atmosphere, to say the least.” He took a generous sip of Scotch.

  I asked him, “And what about Dr. Frumpkin? Have his spirits improved any?”

  “Not much, I’m afraid. His world is upside-down now. Not just the business issues—but the anguish over Jason’s death. Francis truly loved the guy, grooming him to take over the practice. Jason wasn’t just ‘the son-in-law.’ He was also Olivia’s father. Francis has always been highly sentimental about that link to his granddaughter.”

  “And yet,” I noted, “you and Jason found yourselves at odds.”

  Dahr set his glass on the low table between us. “Jason had some strange ideas, some insecurities, I guess. I can’t say I understood his feelings; I’m not wired
that way.”

  “But you must have felt some animosity toward him—the way he treated you.”

  “Actually, no, I didn’t. Jason’s issues weren’t my issues. I worked—and I still work—for Francis.” Dahr picked up his glass and drank again.

  Swirling my own glass, I said, “Sorry it’s been so hard on Francis. May I ask, where is he tonight?”

  “He’s having dinner with Sarah and Olivia—needed a little ‘family time,’ and I didn’t want to intrude. So I’m glad you asked me here. Feels good to decompress.”

  Odd choice of words. Jason Ward had died in an oxygen compression chamber.

  Dahr continued, “Olivia is bouncing back nicely, but poor Sarah—if anything, she seems to be sinking even deeper into her grief.”

  I reminded Dahr, “Jason died only ten days ago. There’s no timetable for grief, and we each set our own rules.”

  “Of course. One bright little glimmer, though. Sarah’s been flummoxed about Olivia’s after-school schedule; it seemed to work out just fine when Jason was still with us. So after the funeral yesterday, the sheriff’s wife offered to pick up Olivia after school today for a play date with their son, Tommy.”

  I nodded, recalling, “I was there when Gloria suggested it.”

  “It worked out great,” said Dahr. “It took some pressure off Sarah this afternoon and let her focus more on the office—probably a good distraction right now.”

  I swallowed the last of my cocktail, then told Dahr, “I know the after-school issue has been weighing on Sarah. She was here on Monday afternoon and brought Olivia with her. We had a bit of drama with Mister Puss.”

  Dahr gave me a quizzical look.

  I explained, “I was doing some cat-sitting for Mary Questman’s Abyssinian. Olivia played with the cat and got sorta rough with him. In fact, the situation came to a tense climax, but it was peaceably resolved.” With a soft laugh, I reminded Dahr, “Mary claims to communicate with Mister Puss.”

  Dahr smiled. “And vice versa.”

  “Right,” I said. “And it seems Mister Puss has grown somewhat wary of Olivia. He told Mary, and I quote, ‘There’s something wrong with that sasspot.’”