On that cold morning, I woke up to reality. I woke up to my own reality. Brody Norris, architect. Brody Norris, husband of Marson Miles.
I rolled over to kiss him good morning.
He stirred, asking groggily, “Time to get up, kiddo?”
“It’s early,” I said. “Sleep all you like. I’ll start the coffee.”
I threw on a robe and traipsed down the stairs. The view of the street through the big front windows was frosty and still, with not a trace of green remaining on the trees; all the leaves were yellow or brown or gone. Swinging through the kitchen, I switched on the coffeemaker, then heard its first few gurgles as I crossed the main room to the front door.
When I opened it, the rush of dry, arctic air made the hair bristle on my legs and arms. I stooped to retrieve the morning paper, grabbed it, and ducked inside, thumping the door closed behind me.
Back in the kitchen, I set the bulky Sunday edition of the Dumont Daily Register on the granite countertop. The paper flopped open, revealing a rare front-page editorial. Headline: FOUR MORE YEARS.
Mary Questman had invited a small group of friends to her home that morning for a casual brunch, beginning at eleven. When Marson and I arrived in his Range Rover and parked at the curb, Glee Savage pulled up behind us in her vintage fuchsia hatchback, greeting us with a toot of the horn.
“Brody love,” she gushed, hugging me as we stood in the street. “I understand you came up with the breakthrough that cracked the case.” The steam of her breath mingled with ours, forming a tiny cloud of conversation in the chilled morning air, like a dialogue bubble in a newspaper cartoon.
I said, “Sheriff Simms seemed grateful. But it was his case, and he welcomed my input. I’m not looking for any credit. Just glad to help him out.”
Marson added, “Glad to help him out—and get him reelected.”
“Bingo,” said Glee. “A double win for Dumont.”
Marson told her, “I saw your big story this morning about the orchestra’s fund-raiser—ought to be fun.”
“My, yes,” she said, “the anniversary ball should be quite the gala. And did you notice my interview yesterday with the Dumont Players’ new executive director?”
“We did,” I said. “Great to see that you’re back on the arts beat—and on solid ground with the paper. After that FlabberGas blowup, we were concerned.”
“So was I, sweets. But the only way I’m leaving the Register is feet-first.” She stepped between us and locked arms with both of us. “Come on. It’s cold out here.” Then she marched us up the walkway to Mary’s front door.
Berta answered when we rang and shooed us indoors, instructing us, “Don’t let the cold air in.”
Marson gave me a look. Yes, Berta could be impertinent. But she was loyal and caring, an important presence in Mary Questman’s later life.
While Glee fished inside her big purse and extracted a bag of cookies, handing them to Berta, Mary trundled down the hall to greet us, tailed by Mister Puss.
“Marson dear”—one kiss—“and Brody dear”—another kiss—“how wonderful to see you this morning. We should do brunch more often.”
Mister Puss nuzzled my shins as I said to Mary, “So kind of you to invite us.”
Marson gave her a petite wrapped package, a hostess trinket.
She thanked us with a warm smile. “Well, it’s a bit of a celebration, isn’t it?”
Glee said, “I certainly think so,” as Berta reappeared with a tray of filled champagne glasses. Glee plucked one and held it aloft.
“Then again,” said Mary, weighing her words, “I know it’s a terrible time for the Frumpkin family. It’s a relief to have the crime solved, but I’m sorry things turned out the way they did.”
“Blind justice,” said Glee, hand on hip.
Mary said, “Given what’s happened, I wasn’t sure if I should include Francis today, but then I thought, Do unto others. So I invited him.”
Glee looked stricken. Her last couple of encounters with Dr. Frumpkin had not gone well—they’d been explosive.
“But he declined,” said Mary. Glee downed a gulp of bubbly as Mary continued, “He did ask, though, if he could send his friend instead—his nurse? I believe the young man’s name is Dahr.”
“Really?” I asked. “Dahr’s coming? Nice.” I tried the champagne.
“Delightful,” added Marson.
“And of course the Simms family. They’ll be along right after church.” Mary then led us to the living room, where we could await the arrival of the others.
Mister Puss followed at my heels as I took a seat on one of the sofas. Marson sat a few inches away from me, on the adjacent cushion. Mister Puss hopped up between us, negotiating the crack.
“Is he bothering you?” asked Mary.
“Not at all.” I twiddled the cat’s ears. He purred.
When the doorbell rang, Mister Puss stayed put, rather than darting out to the hall. A few moments later, Berta showed Dahr Ahmadi into the living room. Everyone rose; the cat plopped down to the floor.
Dahr looked great—as always—though a bit somber, in light of recent events. He greeted Mary with a tidy bouquet of autumn flowers, which she passed off to Berta while thanking Dahr and welcoming him.
Marson and I greeted him with hugs—no kisses today—and expressed our sorrow for the horrible outcome of the FlabberGas calamity.
When we were all seated, he told us, “Francis asked me to send his regrets. He’d like to be with you today, but he’s deeply shaken. The murder was awful enough, but now, with Sarah’s role in it—I’m surprised he can even find the strength to breathe.”
Everyone mumbled words of understanding.
“But you know what?” asked Dahr. His features brightened some as he said, “There’s that old truism: every cloud has a silver lining. When Jason was killed two weeks ago, Francis lost his colleague and his son-in-law, and it seemed that things couldn’t get much worse. But now, Francis has lost his daughter as well. It’s hard to say what Sarah’s chances are before the law. There may be some leniency in the matter of Jason’s murder—the incest, the mother’s instinct to protect her child—but Sarah won’t just walk away from this with a rap on the wrist. Plus, she tried to kill Brody, which has no arguable defense. Even in the best-case scenario, even if Sarah gets off easy, it could take years to grind through the legal machinery. Beyond that, her future is permanently disrupted. So Francis feels, regardless of how everything plays out, that he’s already lost his daughter.”
Marson said, “I hesitate to ask, but what’s the silver lining?” I was wondering the same thing. This did not sound like the preamble to a happy ending.
“Oddly,” said Dahr, “the silver lining is little Olivia.”
We must have looked aghast. Olivia was a seven-year-old victim of repeated incest whose father had been murdered by her avenging mother, now behind bars. Olivia’s troubles were far from over.
Dahr acknowledged, “Olivia has already suffered way more than any child could be expected to endure. She needs sympathy and respect, she needs tons of therapy, she needs love and reassurance.” Dahr paused. “And she needs parents.”
Marson and I glanced at each other. Aha. Was there indeed a happy ending to be snatched from the depths of this tragedy?
Dahr smiled. “Francis and I have been involved for quite a while now, and he’s always wanted to take it to the next level—a committed future together. But he’s never seen children in our future, which I’ve wanted. Now, though, his granddaughter needs him badly, and he needs me to help complete a little family for the girl. We’ve talked about it nonstop since Friday, when Sarah was arrested, when everything changed for both Olivia and Francis. We’ve agreed: Francis and I will become Olivia’s ‘two daddies.’ He’s with her right now.”
Marson and I—Mary and Glee—we all stood and rushed to Dahr with open arms, who laughed as he rose to receive our group hug, our best wishes, our congratulations. I had never quite been able to i
magine Dahr settling down with Frumpkin, but now it seemed that, although they were an unlikely match, their coupling would work beautifully for all concerned.
Mary asked, “Will you live here in Dumont?”
Mister Puss wandered into our circle, looking up from face to face.
“Yes, Mrs. Questman, at least at first. But after Sarah’s fate is known, we may rethink things. Francis has been looking forward to a ‘chapter two’ in California, and maybe that’ll make sense for the three of us.”
Marson asked, “Francis is ready to retire?”
“Yeah,” said Dahr with a single nod. “He’s been flirting with it anyway, but now, you bet, he’s ready to close shop. The Milwaukee office, he’ll sell out to his partners. The Dumont practice, that’ll disappear quickly.”
Glee said, “I don’t suppose any of this is intended for public consumption?”
We all shot her a look. I said, “Don’t press your luck, honey.”
The doorbell rang. As Berta barreled out of the kitchen to answer it, the rest of us, including the cat, filed into the hall to greet the Simmses.
“Welcome, Thomas,” lilted Mary as the Sheriff stepped inside with his wife and their son. “And congratulations.” We all joined in a round of hoots and applause.
“Thank you, Miss Mary, but don’t jinx it—the election’s not over till it’s over.”
Mary tittered. “I was talking about the murder case.”
“Oh, that,” said Simms. “Just between you and me? That was pretty much Brody’s doing.”
I saw Glee digging for her notebook and stopped her with a glare of warning.
“Nonsense,” I told Simms. “And the election? I have a hunch congratulations won’t jinx it.”
Gloria Simms leaned into the conversation, beaming. “I think you’re right, Brody. Thomas won’t tell you, but he got a hero’s welcome at church today.” Then she turned to their young son. “Don’t you have something for Mrs. Questman, sweetie?”
He looked so adorable in his Sunday best—ten years from now, that kid would be breaking hearts all over Dumont. He lifted a small box, Tiffany blue with a white satin bow. Offering it to Mary, he said, “This is for you, Mrs. Questman.”
Mary scooched down to take it from his hands. “Why, thank you, Tommy. I can’t wait to open this later.”
Bright-eyed, he told her, “You can open it now, if you want.”
Rising, Mary glanced at Tommy’s smiling parents, who gave subtle nods. Then she pulled the bow open and lifted the lid from the box. “How absolutely darling,” she gushed, setting the box aside and showing us a little broach that looked like a sleek, golden cat swatting at a ball, which was a pearl.
Tommy said, “It looks like Mister Puss!”
“It certainly does,” agreed Mary.
Everyone moved closer to peer at it, marveling at the resemblance. I hoisted Mister Puss from the floor, asking him, “What do you think?”
Purring, he nosed the pin for a moment, then crawled to my shoulder. While the others gabbed merrily, he reached my ear.
I’ve seen better.
Mary asked the sheriff, “Could you help me pin it on, Thomas?”
“Gladly, Miss Mary. There now. Hope you’ll enjoy wearing it.”
“I love wearing it, but I wish you hadn’t done this. It’s far too generous.”
Simms crossed his arms. “Miss Mary. I could never repay all you’ve done for me. No exaggeration—you helped save my job.”
So did Mister Puss, I thought.
Berta leaned to tell Mary, “Everything’s ready.”
And we all chattered as Mary led us into her gracious dining room, where the long table had been draped in white linen and set for nine. Arranged down the center were flowers, including the ones Dahr had brought, and pitchers of this and that, as well as a champagne bucket, plus an array of serving dishes brimming with all manner of brunch items, elegantly garnished and perfectly presented.
Mary took the single chair at the head of the table, saying, “Nothing formal today, nothing fancy, just friends. Please sit wherever you’d like.”
When we had arranged ourselves around the table, there were eight of us—Mary, Glee, Dahr, the three Simmses, Marson, and me—so one chair remained vacant. Berta stepped over from the sideboard to ask Mary, “Are we expecting someone else?”
“No”—Mary’s glance circled the table—“I don’t think so.”
Berta indicated the empty chair. “Who’s sitting there—His Majesty?”
We chuckled as Mister Puss sauntered from the base of Mary’s chair to sniff at the empty seat.
“Actually, Berta,” said Mary, “I was hoping to convince you to join us today.”
“Gosh, Mary, no—I couldn’t.”
“Why not? Everything’s ready. Nothing left to do but eat it.”
Glee piped in, “Come on, Bert. Join the party.”
The rest of us cajoled her as well, even Marson, who told her, “It’s all your doing anyway.”
Berta hesitated. “Suit yourself,” she said, pulling out the last chair and sitting.
As everyone settled into the convivial mood of our gathering, we sampled the various dishes set before us, all the products of Berta’s kitchen wizardry: chicken quenelles, baked eggs with ham, a layered concoction of French toast with bacon and syrupy fruit, and a cheesy feel-good casserole studded with sausage—liberally spiced with something like oregano. More than once, Mary told us, “Save room for dessert. You’ll love Berta’s brownies.”
Our table chat covered the gamut, from the mundane to the heavy. In a lighter vein, we talked about the house Marson and I were building—immodestly dubbed “the perfect house”—which was still in the early stages of construction.
Glee said, “Anytime you want to wrap it up, you’ll get a full-blown Sunday feature. I have some open slots to fill, so pedal-to-the-metal, boys.”
I replied, “Cool your heels, doll. It’s at least a year away.”
Dahr said, “The drawings were amazing. Can’t wait to step inside the real thing.”
“You’ll be among the first,” Marson assured him.
How would I react, I wondered, when that day arrived? When Dahr came visiting, he would surely be in the company of Dr. Frumpkin, probably married, along with their little girl, Olivia. They would land on our new doorstep as a family, to which Dahr would be committed as one of “two daddies.” I found it a difficult leap to imagine him in such a context, having known him as the exotic stranger in black who had kissed me (and how) in the drizzle beneath a streetlamp. I would simply have to adjust my image of him—unless, of course, his freshly hatched family had scooted off to California by then. Either way, I was content that the fantasy had flared, but faded.
Mary plucked a piece of sausage from the casserole on her plate and made kissy sounds at Mister Puss, who jumped up to her lap and chomped at the greasy morsel between her fingertips. She asked Sheriff Simms, “Was there a decent crowd at St. Alban’s this morning?”
“Yeah,” he said, “decent. I talked to Father Sterling afterward and mentioned we’d be with you today. He asked me to give you his best—and to tell you he misses seeing you on Sundays. In fact, we all do.”
“Well,” she said wistfully, petting Mister Puss, “sometimes we need to move on.” It was now common knowledge that she had lost her faith, claiming the cat had convinced her that God is a myth. “Besides,” she said, wiping her fingers on a damask napkin, “they need some new blood over there at St. Alban’s—and I’m old.”
Everyone, of course, begged to differ, joking about how she outran all of us, how she’d outlive the whole bunch of us.
She laughed at our silly assurances.
But time and again, our banter took on a more sober tone as we returned to the aftermath of the FlabberGas murder.
Marson said, “At least it didn’t screw up the election.”
“So it seems,” said Glee, “but it really peeves me that someone so deranged as Alex
Kastle could even pose a threat. He actually made some headway—until he didn’t.”
Following Mary’s example, I dug a piece of sausage out of the casserole and lifted it for Mister Puss to see. He abandoned his mistress and moved under the table before reappearing in my lap, where he erupted into a loud purr as I fed him the meat.
Simms said to Glee, “It’s a sad sign of the times. Kastle’s campaign was based solely on his ability to criticize and degrade. He never once offered a single productive idea.”
“Wonder where he picked that up,” Marson said with a harrumph.
Some of us laughed; the others, apparently, could find no humor in the devolution of American politics.
Mary said to Simms, “But you’re an honorable man, Thomas. Without ever lowering yourself to Deputy Kastle’s level, you stood up to his challenge—and along the way, you solved the murder.”
We chimed in with a round of hear-hears.
Simms modestly shushed us with both palms. “I know you never doubted me, but to be honest, I sometimes doubted myself—and I had no idea how this would turn out. Brody? You were a tremendous help. Without you, it might not have ended this way. Thank you.”
Marson told me, “Nice job, kiddo. Like I’ve always said, you’re a first-class problem-solver.”
I reached over to hold my husband’s hand. With the other, I petted Mister Puss. “I appreciate all the high praise, but I had a bit of help myself. Some of my encounters with Mister Puss were downright … revelatory.” The cat looked up at me. “And finally, there was little Tommy.” I smiled at the boy, telling him, “Thanks for opening up to me in the car Thursday night.”
Gloria Simms stroked her son’s head. “We’ve had a long talk about that.”
Sheriff Simms wrapped his arm around Tommy’s shoulder. “We explained to him that he should never be afraid to come to us with anything that’s troubling him. There’s nothing he could say that we wouldn’t want to hear. And I’m sorry if I’ve seemed too busy or too stern.” He held his son’s chin and peered into the boy’s small round face. “Okay, Tommy?”
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