FlabberGassed

by Michael Craft

  Both Dahr and I laughed. I was not inclined to mention that I had heard—or wondered if I might have heard—the same words from the cat.

  Dahr’s laughter trailed off. “Believe it or not, Olivia is a sweet little girl. I’ve watched her grow up, and this recent phase of hers—well, I hope it’s just a phase. And while Mister Puss is entitled to his opinions, I think it’s a bit harsh to dismiss Olivia as a ‘sasspot.’ I’d prefer to call her ‘troubled.’ I don’t see her as a problem child, but as the victim of some larger problem, some psychological turmoil, whatever that may be. Point is, she’s a child. And like all children, she needs—and deserves—unconditional love.”

  Jeepers. I felt like a heel again. Dahr had come to Olivia’s defense during his prior visit to the loft, and now he had reminded me that it was not only cavalier, but cruel, to judge conditions that are not understood. I also felt ashamed that I had lured him to my home to confront him with suspicions of murder—which had all but evaporated.

  I said, “Know what, Dahr? You’d make a great parent.”

  He grinned. “Don’t I wish.”

  Yes, I knew that was what he wished. I also knew that the parenting issue was the crux of his reticence to commit to Francis Frumpkin, who clearly loved him.

  Noticing his empty glass, I asked, “Can I get you another?”

  He hesitated. “Sure. But if you’ll excuse a request from an impolite guest, may I ask if you have any snacks? Chips, anything like that? I’m starved.”

  “Ughhh”—I tossed my arms and stood—“how thoughtless of me. Come on.” Leading him back to the kitchen, I realized that I, too, was hungry. While Berta’s carrot soup was, for lack of a better word, transcendental, it was not a meal.

  I rummaged. “Let’s see: macadamia nuts, lavash, some decent-looking apples, a round of brie, and—sorry to admit—a party-size bag of Cheetos. Any preference?”

  “Cheetos!”

  “Good call.” As I opened the bag, I handed him a wad of paper napkins. “You’ll need these.” Then I poured us another round of drinks.

  After eating several fistfuls, he explained while wiping his hands, “We were booked solid today, and I assisted with a Mohs surgery for a basal cell at eleven. It required removal of more tissue than expected, lasting well into the noon hour.”

  I asked, “So you never got out for lunch?”

  “God, no. It was nonstop for me today.”

  His story could easily be checked, if needed, against office schedules, insurance records, and such. So he had no reason to make this up. And I had every reason to abandon the notion that he had planted a canister of laughing gas in my car between eleven-thirty and twelve-fifteen.

  “But hey,” he said, “enough of my woes. You mentioned in your e-mail that you’d had a rough day and that I might like to hear about it. What happened?”

  “Just … stuff.” It no longer seemed important to confront him with this. In fact, it seemed important to keep a lid on it. “However,” I said, raising my glass and touching it to his, “there’s something we haven’t talked about, but should.”

  He returned the skoal and swallowed a slug. With a slow nod, he said, “I’m sorry, Brody. I humbly apologize.”

  “For what?”

  “For coming on to you like I did. You’re a hot man, about my age, openly gay—a rare bird around here. But you’re also married, and both you and Marson have offered me your friendship. I was way out of bounds to ask for more. It took me a few days to realize that. But yesterday, the funeral changed everything. Even though I haven’t committed to Francis, he needs me, and I was glad to be there for him. So I’m sorry if that ‘special kiss’ last Saturday caused you any problems.”

  “I admit, it threw me.” Heaving a little sigh, I added, “But it was fabulous.”

  “Good, huh?”

  “One of the best. I still enjoy the memory.”

  “I do, too, Brody. So let’s just keep it that way. And most important, let’s be friends.” He winked. Or was it a tic?

  “Awww,” I said, “of course we’re friends.”

  As we stood there sharing a smile, it was the most natural thing in the world for us to wrap each other in a big, friendly, innocent hug.

  And then Marson said with a laugh, “Hope I’m not interrupting anything,” as he stepped through the back door.

  I froze, certain that the hug could not have looked innocent at all.

  Dahr joined in Marson’s laughter and stepped over to give him the same big, friendly hug, telling him, “Your beautiful husband and I were just clearing the air on a few matters.”

  “Glad to hear it,” said Marson. Turning to me, he asked, “Another blind alley?”

  Although Marson misunderstood the details of how Dahr and I had cleared the air, he had nonetheless reached the right conclusion. I replied, “Yep, another blind alley.”

  “Guys,” said Dahr, I don’t want to take up any more of your evening. And I want to check on Francis—see how he’s doing. So it’s time for me to run.”

  We saw him to the front door, helped him into his jacket, and wrapped the scarf around his neck.

  He gave Marson a nice little parting kiss. I was expecting the same as he turned to me and grasped my shoulders.

  What I got, however, was another doozy—as masterfully delivered as the one he’d planted on me under the streetlamp. My knees went weak.

  “I know,” he said, laughing, “I promised. But that was just one for the road.”

  And he left.

  Munching on Cheetos while Marson fixed himself a martini, I pondered aloud, “I’m running out of alleys—blind or otherwise.”

  Marson said, “Your instincts were right about Sheriff Simms, though. Good thing you didn’t convince him to give Dahr the rubber-hose treatment.”

  Ignoring that, I asked, “Know what Mister Puss said?”

  “No,” said Marson, suppressing a grin. “What?”

  I rephrased: “Know what Mister Puss said—to Mary—about little Olivia? He said, ‘There’s something wrong with that sasspot.’”

  “Most observant of him.” Marson lanced a cocktail onion with a toothpick and dropped it into the gin. “He certainly has an ear for catchy dialogue.”

  I wiped my fingers with a napkin, smearing it orange. Then I took out my phone. “Think it’s too late to call Mary?”

  “The night is young, kiddo. She’s old. Not bedridden.”

  I tapped her number. When she answered, I said, “Good evening, Mary. It’s Brody. No, nothing’s wrong. I was just wondering if I could ask a small favor.”

  Chapter 14

  The next afternoon, Thursday, I drove over to Mary Questman’s house and parked at the curb shortly before three.

  For the past two weeks, since the FlabberGas pitch session delivered by Dr. Frumpkin at Mary’s, little Olivia had been popping up in conversations with everyone—from her parents and her grandfather, to Dahr and Mary and even Mister Puss. What’s more, Olivia herself had been popping up in person—at the pitch session, at my loft, and most recently at her father’s funeral—generally behaving like a hellion, or as her mother had termed it, “acting out,” but finally undergoing some attitude adjustment and summoning the self-control to make a respectable appearance at the funeral.

  It was now only four days until the start of early voting in the sheriff’s election, and the prospects weren’t looking good for my friend Thomas Simms, who was singularly qualified to serve another term, but who was facing an unexpectedly strong challenge from one of his own deputies. Alex Kastle, a racist wingnut, had successfully reframed the election as a test of Simms’s ability to solve the FlabberGas murder—and quickly.

  Having been flattered as a first-class problem-solver, I had foolishly assumed that my design skills as an architect would somehow translate into amateur sleuthing skills as an unofficial sidekick to Sheriff Simms, who welcomed my input. To date, however, I had managed only to lead him down one blind alley after another. And the
clock was ticking. Clearly, I needed to rethink things. I needed a fresh approach.

  Which had led me to consider a more focused appraisal of Olivia. Mister Puss had called her a sasspot. Dahr Ahmadi had called her a sweet little girl, but troubled, a victim of the psychological turmoil that can arise out of nowhere to haunt anyone’s childhood—in other words, she’d been going through a phase of routine growing pains. But I wanted to take another look at her.

  I’d hit upon an idea last night and phoned Mary Questman. Recalling that Sarah Frumpkin Ward, Olivia’s mother, was having trouble adjusting to her new circumstances—needing to balance her dual roles as office manager and single mom, needing to make arrangements for Olivia’s after-school hours—I asked Mary if she would mind offering to supervise an afternoon play date for Olivia with Mister Puss. Mary readily agreed, and then, so did Sarah. It was all arranged: Olivia would be dropped off at Mary’s today around three-fifteen.

  Now, shortly before three, I got out of my car, remembered my hard-learned lesson to lock it, then strolled up the walkway from the street to Mary’s front door. I thought I saw her peeking from the sidelight. When I rang, she answered at once.

  Offering a peck as I entered, she said, “Brody dear, welcome. I’ve been on pins and needles all day.”

  “Oh?” I asked with childlike innocence. “How come?”

  She shot me a wry expression, then whispered, “I haven’t yet told His Majesty that you-know-who is coming over.” Mister Puss moved from Mary’s ankles to mine.

  I looked down at the cat and suggested to Mary, “Maybe it’s time for a talk.”

  Mary nodded. “In here.”

  She led me and the cat into the parlor off the front hall and settled on the loveseat, which seemed to be her customary spot in the room, as the cat simultaneously hopped up to sit next to her. I sat across from them in a quilted-chintz armchair.

  Mary slowly stroked the cat’s spine, which soon had him purring. She told him, “Someone’s coming to see you today.” He stepped from the cushion and into her lap, leaning against her chest to look up at her. “I’m sure you remember little Olivia.” His purring halted for a moment, then resumed. Mary said, “She’ll be here soon, and we’d like you to spend some time with her. Alone.” The cat climbed to her shoulder and reached his snout to her ear. Mary nodded. “Yes, I know you’ve had some bad experiences with her, but Brody and I will be nearby if you need us.” The cat nuzzled Mary’s ear again.

  I said, “Mister Puss?” In spite of mounting evidence to the contrary, I remained thoroughly skeptical that the cat was capable of conversation, but he did recognize his name, turning to peer into my eyes. I recalled yesterday’s meeting with Dr. Phelps, when he mentioned that, as children, we’ve all talked with animals, dolls, or imaginary friends—a normal exercise in creativity.

  Having captured the cat’s attention, I returned his stare and wondered what to say to him. Mary hadn’t baby-talked him, so neither did I. “Mister Puss,” I said, “I saw Olivia recently, and she was sorry for playing so rough with you. I think she wants to apologize and be friends. She told me she’s been confused lately. Maybe you could help us straighten this out.”

  The cat twisted his head to look up at Mary.

  She said, “Maybe you could wait in the dining room. Find a place where you feel safe and comfortable—probably under the table. When Olivia arrives, we’ll send her in. If she misbehaves at all, let out a yowl. We’ll be listening.”

  With a purr, Mister Puss stretched to give Mary a nose-bump, then hopped to the floor. While pussyfooting out of the room, he paused near my chair and flashed me an expression that looked a lot like a grin. Do cats grin?

  When the doorbell rang, Mary told me, “I sent Berta out on some errands—thought we should have the house to ourselves. Let’s see who’s here.” Then she led me out to the front hall.

  Opening the door, we found Olivia, as expected, but not with her mother. Instead, Dahr Ahmadi had brought her over.

  He said, “Hello, Mrs. Questman. And hi there, Brody! I didn’t know you’d be here, but I thought I recognized your car.

  I couldn’t recall when he might have seen me in my car. Giving him a breezy hug, no smooches, I explained, “Actually, this visit was my idea. After you told me how Olivia’s play date with Tommy Simms worked out so nicely for everyone, I thought Mary might like to look after Olivia this afternoon.”

  “And I was happy to offer,” said Mary, beaming.

  Dahr said, “Sarah was so pleased to hear from you, Mrs. Questman. She’ll thank you herself when she swings by after work to pick up our little princess here.”

  Olivia tugged the sleeve of Dahr’s jacket. “I don’t think I like that name anymore. Okay, Dahr?” She was apparently ditching not only the name, but the costumes as well. She wore a normal little frock, not as dressy as the charcoal pinafore she’d worn to the funeral—just a nice, cheery school dress well suited for a girl of seven.

  Dahr told her, “Okay, punkin, I’ll call you whatever you like.”

  With a sweet smile, she reminded him, “My name’s Olivia.”

  “Got it, Olivia.” He tousled her hair. “You’ll be good today, right?”

  She gave an earnest nod.

  Dahr said to Mary, “Thanks so much for helping out. I need to get back now—just call the office if anything comes up.” And he left the girl on the doorstep.

  Mary took Olivia’s hand and brought her inside. I closed the door. It was heartening to witness the change in the girl—her overall deportment as well as the clothes. She was as well mannered and deferential as she had been at the funeral, which I had assumed was the result of a stern lecture regarding “best behavior” that day. But now, two days later, it seemed the lesson had stuck.

  I crouched to ask her, “What would you like to do this afternoon?”

  Mary suggested, “We could have some milk and cookies. When I was little, that’s what I liked after school. Berta baked them just today.”

  Olivia looked around. “Is Mister Puss here?”

  Mary said, “He might be sleeping in the dining room. I think I saw him under the table. Tell you what: Mr. Norris and I were in the middle of talking about something important, so maybe you’d like to go visit Mister Puss while we finish up our business”—she wagged her jowls—“which is very dull stuff indeed.”

  Rising from my crouch, I said, “And then, later, we can all enjoy the cookies.” I wondered what was in them. Surely, I thought, Mary and Berta had sense enough not to dope a child. I asked Olivia, “Sound like a plan?”

  She nodded.

  Mary and I moved off to the parlor, improvising chitchat as we paused in the doorway to watch Olivia take a few exploratory steps down the hallway. Finding the dining room, she went inside.

  Mary lifted a finger, signaling me to wait while she slipped out of her suede pumps and placed them on the carpet inside the parlor. Then she led me on our stealth mission across the hallway’s parquet flooring. Despite our best efforts, the floor emitted occasional quiet pops beneath our traversing feet, which moved with slow, short steps. A full minute passed before we arrived outside the dining room’s double doors, one of which was wide open. Mary slipped into position against the wall.

  I hid behind the closed door and peeped in through the opening of the other door. As Mary had suggested, Mister Puss was settled in a safe spot beneath the large table, near its middle, protected by a spindly forest of mahogany chair legs. He sat calmly in the recumbent sphinx position, with front paws extended. His eyes caught mine for a moment and blinked. Then he returned his careful gaze to Olivia.

  She was busy dragging a few of the chairs away from the table, which would afford her a path of entry. When her way was cleared, she got down on all fours and began a slow crawl beneath the table, toward the cat. “It’s just me, Mister Puss,” she said in a loud whisper. “Don’t be afraid.”

  His gaze didn’t waver. He remained still as stone.

  “I’m sorry
I was mean. I won’t play rough. Promise.”

  His eyes widened as she neared.

  “Won’t you be my friend?” When Olivia came within inches of Mister Puss, she settled on the floor facing him, mirroring his sphinx pose. She didn’t have the cat’s haunches, though, so her butt stuck up. With her hands extended on the carpet, she reached a pinkie to touch the tip of one of the cat’s paws. He did not pull back, so she reached a little farther and stroked the velvety, ruddy fur. She told him, “You have such pretty little hands.”

  Mister Puss—a sucker, it seemed, for flattery—broke into a purr.

  Olivia giggled, stretching her head closer to the cat.

  As Mister Puss reached to give her a nose-kiss, his mouth drooped open and the purr gurgled loudly.

  Laughing, Olivia reached under his chin and stroked his neck.

  His purring intensified as he slid his snout up her cheek. When his nose reached her ear, they both froze briefly. All was quiet for a few seconds. Then Olivia began laughing again, telling the cat, “No, I don’t think so.”

  Mary and I exchanged a curious glance.

  Under the table, Olivia sat up, crossing her legs. Mister Puss stood, then stepped into her lap. She petted him; he purred. She gabbed about school and a game they had played and a new song they had learned, singing a few lines about the sun and Mercury and Venus and so on. Then she got quiet. After a long pause, she told the cat, “I’ve been so confused.”

  Mister Puss tilted his head up to her, as if asking, Why?

  She said, “I feel bad for Mommy. She’s so sad that Daddy died.”

  The cat leaned into Olivia’s chest, as if offering a hug.

  Olivia snapped out of her fleeting slump and told the cat about another song she’d learned at school. Then she sang some sprightly lines about counting by fives.

  Mary caught my eye and shrugged.

  With a jerk of my head, I implied we should retreat.