ChoirMaster

by Michael Craft

  But I’m fine.

  “Come on.” I got out of the car, walking Mister Puss on his leash.

  A bell on a spring heralded our arrival as we stepped inside. The receptionist looked up from her computer. “Mr. Norris? The doctor was concerned about your message. How’s Mister Puss doing?”

  “Better than yesterday, I hope. He had a close call. We both had a scare.” We passed my credit card back and forth.

  She said, “We’re not busy this morning, one appointment ahead of you. If you’ll take a seat, Dr. Jim will see you soon.” As I picked a chair near the window, she asked, “How’d you train Mister Puss on the leash?”

  Stock answer: “He just took to it.”

  “That’s really something.” She got up and retreated to the back of the building to check on something.

  Mister Puss hopped up to the chair nearest mine, separated by a small table with a pile of magazines. The waiting room’s other accoutrements included an aquarium, which bubbled quietly; a parrot in a cage, which chattered and hacked; and a lethargic but fat brown snake in a terrarium, which creeped me out. Mister Puss seemed bored by these lowlier denizens of the animal kingdom. Instead, he watched TV.

  A cable news program played at low volume on an older set—with a picture tube—mounted near the door. When a commercial for a car dealer in Green Bay ended, the screen blossomed with the face of Chad Percy, mister dollcakes himself, looking serious, talking about “…another disturbing incident of anti-gay activity right here in Green Bay. While the city has a working-class reputation and a legacy of passion for football, it’s also home to a University of Wisconsin campus, with its progressive mind-set and tolerance…”

  I stepped over to turn it up, but by the time I’d sat down again, dollcakes had recovered his usual toothy cheerfulness, talking about his favorite topic. “…since I’ve partnered with the legendary scentologists at Parfumerie Abraxas for the introduction of a new unisex fragrance you’ll want to make your own. You already know what we’re calling it. ‘Chad!’ That’s right, with an exclamation point! Isn’t it dynamite? You’ll find it at finer fragrance counters everywhere, coming soon, just in time for—”

  Saved by the bell. On the spring. Which rang as the front door opened. And in walked Geoff Lovell, with his big, sickly dog, Cindy. He did a double take when I stood to snap off the television, as astonished to see me as I was to see him. “Brody?” he asked. “What are you doing here?” Then he noticed the cat in the chair.

  “Small town,” I said. “Not many vets, I guess. I’m taking care of a friend’s cat.”

  Geoff stepped over for a closer look. “Awww. Gorgeous. Hope she’s okay.”

  “He,” I corrected. “This is Mister Puss.”

  “Hey there, Mister Puss,” said Geoff, twiddling the cat’s chin. Mister Puss purred. Cindy limped over to explore the situation, bumping noses with Mister Puss, then offering a big lick. The cat’s purr intensified. Geoff looked more presentable than the last time I’d seen him—cleaner, better groomed, more neatly dressed.

  I said, “I’ve been worried about your dog. She didn’t look good at the sheriff’s office on Thursday. Any improvement?”

  “About the same,” said Geoff, “so I thought I should get a professional opinion.”

  I was about to inquire about his girlfriend, Spark, who had looked even worse than the dog, when the receptionist returned.

  “Mr. Lovell?” she asked as she stepped behind the counter and tapped at her computer.

  Geoff went over to the counter and conversed with the woman in hushed tones. I heard her say, “But we do require payment in advance from new accounts.” Geoff hesitated, then asked if she could take a debit card, which she said would be dandy. After passing the card back and forth, she rose and said, “You can come right in.”

  I told Geoff that I hoped he and Cindy would get a good report. Then he and the dog disappeared down the hall with the receptionist.

  Sitting again, I patted my knee, and Mister Puss moved over from his chair and sat in my lap. Thinking about what had transpired, I idly rubbed the cat’s neck. Purring, Mister Puss climbed my chest and reached his snout to my ear.

  Nice guy.

  I had to admit, Geoff’s caring interaction with Mister Puss had dampened my suspicion that he might be guilty of fratricide. I told the cat, “Geoff’s dog seemed to be in pretty bad shape.”

  But I’m fine.

  I continued to ponder my mixed feelings about Geoff. On the one hand, his kindness toward animals suggested he was not capable of murder. But on the other hand, I now had reason to question his honesty. He had used a debit card to make advance payment for his appointment with Dr. Phelps. The receptionist had run the card, and the transaction, evidently, was approved. Meaning, Geoff had money in the bank. However, the prior week, he had begged cash from his brother, had taken a hundred-dollar handout from me, and had pleaded a complete lack of funds when Mother Hibbard approached him about his brother’s funeral.

  “Mr. Norris?” said the receptionist from the back hall. “Dr. Jim will see Mister Puss shortly. Can you bring him this way?”

  Moments later, she left the cat and me in a cramped consultation room and closed the door. The space was dominated by a stainless steel exam table. An adjacent counter was filled with medical instruments, sell-cards for pet medicines, and a baby scale. The hospital-blue walls were decorated with faded Currier and Ives prints and yellowed charts showing the innards of dogs and cats. Bright fluorescent lighting competed with gashes of sunshine from the venetian blinds.

  I assured Mister Puss, “Not much longer.”

  I’m fine.

  Within a few minutes, I heard a door open and close in the hall, a bit of farewell conversation, footfalls retreating toward the front, and then the turn of the knob as Jim Phelps walked in to greet me. “Brody, young man! Always a pleasure. But what’s this about Mister Puss? Your message got me nervous.”

  “Morning, Jim.” I shook his hand. Mustering a laugh, I explained, “Maybe I’m overly cautious, but Mary would never forgive me…”

  “Well,” said Phelps, hoisting Mister Puss from the floor and plopping him on the table, “let’s have a look.” While chomping on his unlit pipe and removing the cat’s harness, he asked, “Where’s Mary?”

  “Chicago. Book festival. I’m in loco parentis for a week.”

  “That’s nice,” Jim said vacantly while checking the cat’s heart, eyes, ears. He hefted the cat in both hands and stretched him long in an airborne pose resembling that of Superman. Then he bounced the cat gently on all fours, checking his stance on the table.

  The vet turned to me with a wink. “He’s fine.”

  Mister Puss turned to give me a deadpan stare.

  “That’s a relief,” I said. “Better safe than sorry.”

  “Any other issues with him?” Jim stroked the length of the cat’s spine.

  “Do cats sneeze? Mister Puss seems to do it quite often.”

  Jim set aside his pipe. “Sure, they can sneeze. Have you noticed what triggers it?”

  “Smells. When he smells something he doesn’t like.”

  “Makes total sense. Sneezing can indicate that a cat has a virus or an infection, and we’d want to treat that. But more often—like you describe—it’s just something that’s irritating the respiratory system. Dust. Chemical vapors. Even pollen.”

  I suggested, “Or perfume?”

  Jim laughed. “You bet. Lots of people have a sensitivity to fragrances. Me? I hate the stuff—makes my eyes water. Well, cats have a superhuman sense of smell—about ten times the receptors that we have. Some dogs have way more than that. But cats are even better than dogs at distinguishing between scents. Bottom line: doesn’t surprise me that strong perfume would make Mister Puss sneeze. Nothing to worry about.” He started getting the cat back into his harness.

  His mention of dogs led me to ask, “Geoff Lovell’s dog—is she okay? I saw them come in.”

  “Yeah, no
thing serious. Poor pooch. Geoff recently put her on a new flea medicine, and the dog didn’t react well to it. Sometimes that happens, making the dog lethargic and weak—the limp was just fatigue. So I set them up with a different med. She should improve quickly.”

  Breezily, I asked, “What’d you think of Geoff?”

  Jim shrugged. “Nice guy.”

  Mister Puss shot me another told-you-so look.

  I asked, “Are you aware that Geoff is David Lovell’s brother? The choir director.”

  “Oh, sweet Lord,” said Jim, sitting back on a stool at the exam table. “I didn’t make the connection, and he didn’t mention it. Poor kid, he’s got a lot on his mind—his brother’s death, sick dog, pregnant girlfriend.”

  That caught my attention. “Really? Spark’s pregnant?”

  “No, the girlfriend is pregnant. Not the dog.”

  I explained, “The dog’s name is Cindy. The girlfriend is Spark Kavanaugh.”

  The vet stood, looking bewildered. “Odd,” he said.

  “Sure is,” I agreed. What wasn’t odd, though, was Spark’s delicate condition. Her queasiness at the sheriff’s office should have tipped me off. I stood, clipped Mister Puss’s leash to his harness, and moved him from the exam table to the floor.

  Jim opened the door and followed as I led the cat out through the hallway. He said, “Give my best to Mary when you see her.”

  “I will, Jim. Thanks for everything.”

  He gave a hearty chuckle. “I’ll bet she can’t wait to get back and have a nice, long talk with Mister Puss.” Following us to the reception area, the doctor added, “To hear Mary tell it, he’s been working on the Gettysburg Address.”

  Quack.

  “Huh?” said Jim.

  I turned to tell him, “You ought to teach that parrot some manners.”

  Pulling the knob of the front door, I noticed the lazy snake in the tank. It watched with beady eyes as we left.

  Out in the car, I phoned Sheriff Simms and explained that I had just left the veterinary office. “But while I was there, who should show up but Geoff Lovell with his sick dog. I saw him pay for the appointment with a debit card, so he can’t be as destitute as he claims.”

  “I may have some insight on that,” said Simms. “When we all met Thursday, Geoff gave us the name of the Lovells’ family lawyer in Appleton, Stanley Burton. Later that afternoon, I phoned his office, but Burton had been out of town for a few days, returning the next morning. I identified myself and asked to have Burton call me as soon as possible—I said I needed to discuss a matter of some urgency regarding Geoff Lovell.”

  I asked, “You mean, they hadn’t heard about David?”

  “No, they hadn’t. Burton was absolutely stunned when he called Friday morning and heard the news from me. From my message, he assumed Geoff was in some sort of trouble again. So I filled him in, told him as much as I could. He confirmed that he’d been the parents’ estate planner and—guess what—it all goes to Geoff now. I told him how to reach Geoff, who seemed to be flat broke. They must have arranged something over the weekend.”

  Quick work, I thought. It was Monday, and Geoff had plastic.

  Simms asked, “Are you available to meet Wednesday, maybe ten o’clock? Heather Vance will have toxicology results.”

  “I’ll be there,” I assured him.

  Before hanging up, Simms said, “One more thing, Brody.”

  “Yes, Thomas?”

  “How’s Geoff’s dog?”

  Chapter 11

  Glee Savage was known about town not only as a longtime reporter and editor at the Dumont Daily Register but also as the driver of a vintage Gremlin hatchback, which she had custom-painted a metallic shade of fuchsia and adorned with retro whitewalls and baby moon hubcaps. Some forty years earlier, upon graduating from Madison with a degree in journalism and landing her first job at her hometown paper in Dumont, she had celebrated by splurging on her first new car, made in downstate Kenosha. She still had the same job and the same car. Though the car’s book value was probably now worth little more than scrap, it was cheap to drive, and tricked out with Glee’s no-holds-barred sense of style, it made a statement loud and clear, fetching compliments wherever she went.

  She had accepted my invitation to have lunch Tuesday at the Dumont Country Club and, in return, had offered to drive.

  The grounds were looking perfect at that time of year, with the summer annuals in riotous full bloom. The golf course, built in the 1920s before the wide availability of heavy earthmoving equipment, was designed to the natural contours of the land, punctuated by rocky outcroppings that had been left by a prehistoric glacier. Immaculate fairways, groomed and green, extended off toward the gentle hills as Glee drove the winding entryway beneath a canopy of oaks. Sapphire splotches of the noontide sky peeked through a matrix of leaves and dappled the windshield with dancing, pristine sunbeams.

  When we pulled up to the entrance, the Gremlin was conspicuous among the tony imports in the driveway that circled beneath a soaring porte cochère of fieldstone and timbers. “That is one sweet drive, Miss Savage,” said the valet, a hunky college kid, as he opened her door.

  Getting out of the car, I said, “Hi there, Victor. Back for the summer?”

  “Right, Mr. Norris. One more year of school, then it’s time to take my chances in the real world.”

  “You’ll knock’m dead,” Glee assured him.

  “Thank you, ma’am. Enjoy lunch.”

  Glee adjusted her big hat, took my arm, then strutted up the flagstone walkway and led me through the double-doored entrance, swung wide as if she owned the place. Actually, Marson and I held a business membership; Glee was a guest. But over the years, she had reported on so many club events in her column, she had doubtless spent more time here than most members.

  Inside, we skirted the grill room, which was serving an early lunch to golfers heading out to the links, and walked a long hallway past several banquet rooms, one of which was releasing the attendees of an all-morning breakfast meeting. While wending our way through the yattering crowd, I heard a soft, familiar voice say, “Brody? Glee?”

  Turning, I recognized Dr. Teresa Ortiz, Marson’s longtime primary physician and now mine as well. It seemed that Glee, too, was one of her patients. Small town.

  Glee greeted the doctor with smooches, which made it feel appropriate for me to do the same, even though I had never interacted with her outside her office. Leaning into our hug, I said, “Nice to see you, Doctor.”

  She grinned. “You’re welcome to call me Teresa.”

  “I’d like that, Teresa. Thank you.”

  Glee jerked her head toward the meeting room and asked the doctor, “Gallbladder lecture?”

  Teresa laughed. “No. Pharmaceutical pitch.” Then she turned to me, looking serious. “Brody, my office texted that I had a call from Sheriff Simms this morning.”

  I asked, “Was David Lovell one of your patients?”

  “Yes,” she said with a slow, forlorn nod. “When I heard about it last week, I couldn’t stop crying. He was such a sweet person. Tragic.”

  “I imagine Thomas is looking into the background of David’s nut allergy.”

  “That’s the gist of it,” said Teresa. “He wants me to meet at his office tomorrow morning. I understand you’ll be there, too?”

  “Ten o’clock. Heather Vance, the medical examiner, will also be there.”

  Teresa’s scrunched features signaled she was weighing things. “I’ll come, and I hope I can help. But it makes me a little uneasy—I mean, this is way outside my usual line of work.” She smiled.

  I reminded her, “And I’m an architect. Just being a good citizen.”

  Teresa nodded decisively.

  Glee, hand on hip, asked us, “Shall I hum ‘America the Beautiful’?”

  “Okay, doll,” I told her, “let’s get you some lunch.”

  With parting hugs, Glee and I said good-bye to Teresa. Then we continued down the hall toward the re
ar of the clubhouse.

  We arrived in the formal dining room, which commanded a lofty, verdant view of turf and trees and bitsy distant foursomes of bankers and lawyers at play. On weekend evenings or Sunday mornings, this room would be filled to capacity, but on a Tuesday at noon sharp, only a few of the tables were occupied. The head waiter approached us. “Miss Savage, Mr. Norris, good to have you with us today.”

  I replied, “Thank you, Victor.” He was the father of the car parker. Victor senior, handsome and refined, had been a fixture at the club for many years, arriving not long after he had immigrated from Mexico. Victor junior, born in Wisconsin, had inherited his father’s charms, but the son’s upbringing, speech, and wholesome swagger were Midwestern to the core. Both of them were deemed swoon-worthy by all of the ladies at the club—and at least two of the men.

  Victor said, “Let me show you to a lovely window table.” And he began leading us across the room toward the far wall.

  Along the way, I noticed Gloria Simms, the sheriff’s wife, seated at a table with her son, Tommy. The lad was adorable in a tiny blazer and dressy shorts, quietly reading a book. Victor broke stride and stepped aside to wait as Glee and I greeted the table.

  “Hello, Gloria,” I said, approaching her from behind, “what a pleasant surprise.”

  Turning, she broke into a smile. “Why, Brody—and Glee,” she said, rising, offering pecks. Then she turned to Tommy with a good-natured scowl. “Where are your manners, young man?”

  He rose at once, extending his hand. “Good afternoon, Miss Glee. Good afternoon, Mr. Norris.”

  We shook his hand, and Glee crouched to tell him, “My gosh, you’re growing up fast, aren’t you?”

  “I just finished second grade.”

  Gloria added, “He is growing up fast. Every time I think of college, I break into tears.” She laughed as she dabbed at one eye. “School got out a little early this year—they didn’t use all their snow days, global warming, I guess—and Tommy had perfect grades, and last week was kind of rough”—she mouthed the word David to me—“so this seemed like a good day to have lunch at the club.”