I hesitated. “Nancy, this is awkward, but I couldn’t help noticing: whenever I saw you with David, or even mentioned David, you acted sort of cool toward him.”
“Was I? I try to be nice to everyone. I’m in business.”
“Exactly. That’s why I found your reaction to David … out of character. I was talking to Glee Savage about it, and she mentioned something about an old friend of hers, a former coworker named Lucille Haring.”
Nancy froze in her chair, closing her eyes.
One of her helpers walked in from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a gray bib apron. “Nancy? Did that new bouillon strainer come in yet?”
Nancy looked up. “Yesterday, Helen. Still in the box. In my office.”
Helen went back to look for it.
Nancy said to me, almost pleading, “This isn’t a good place to talk.”
“Do you have a few minutes to step outside? The park, maybe?” There was a miniature park across First Avenue, installed by the city a few years earlier, after a fire in an abandoned seventies-era head shop had left a gaping and charred rectangular plot amid a row of storefronts.
Nancy swallowed. “Sure.” When we got up from the table, she crossed the dining room to the kitchen doorway, telling her staff, “I need to run out. Won’t be long.”
Despite the tainted circumstances of its inception, the little park felt as if it had always been there, as if it belonged there, nestled between the brick walls of the adjacent buildings. Quaint lampposts. A patch of green, a few lacy honey locusts, a neat square of boxwood hedges. A sputtering little fountain to mask the street noise. Four or five pigeons. A pair of benches.
I sat on the same bench with Nancy, crossing my legs as I turned to her, but giving her space. She sat primly on the edge of the bench, knees tight. With hands folded in her lap, she stared vacantly ahead at the fountain.
Finally, she said, “What would you like to know?”
Speaking softly, I assured her, “It’s none of my business, but I’m curious, and I’m a good listener.” I meant: I’m gay, you can trust me, we’re family.
In the breeze, water petered over the edge of the fountain. A pigeon strutted through the puddle and cooed.
Nancy asked, “What did Glee tell you about Lucille Haring?”
“She said Lucy was a talented editor and great to work with. She said matter-of-factly that Lucy was a lesbian. She also said that Lucy connected with you in what appeared to be a special friendship. But something happened, it didn’t work out, and Lucy left town.”
Nancy shrugged, breathing the slightest of sighs, which sounded almost like a quiet laugh. Turning to face me, she said, “Then you know. Yes, that happened.”
I met her gaze with a wry look, suggesting, “But that’s not the end of the story.”
She shrugged again. “That is the end of the story. It was nearly twenty years ago, and I haven’t been in touch with Lucille since she went away.”
“Nancy”—I reached to touch her arm with my fingertips—“I’m not talking about what happened in the twenty years since Lucy left, but many years before you met her.” I withdrew my touch. Her eyes looked so empty, I felt the need to explain, “In high school.”
She lifted a hand to her forehead, muttering, “Oh, Christ…”
Shifting my weight, I moved closer to her on the bench—but still left some space, both physical and emotional. “I can only imagine how difficult this is. If you feel like crying, there’s no need to hold back, not on my account.”
She looked at me with a smirk. “Don’t be silly. I’m not going to cry.” A tear slid down her cheek, which she brushed away. “Are you sure you want to hear this?”
“Try me.” I grinned.
She slumped a bit and planted her palms on her knees, emitting a groan that seemed to rise out of not pain, but resignation. Then she inhaled deeply, as if gathering up memories and strength. Sitting up straight, she pivoted to face me on the bench. As she did, our knees grazed.
“When I was a girl,” she began, “growing up in Green Bay, everyone’s role in the world was pretty clear. Football was for boys; cooking was for girls. No problem. I liked to cook, I liked learning to cook, and I still love doing it. Didn’t give a hoot about football. So everything seemed right on track. And then—you know—puberty hit and the world was upside down.”
With a knowing laugh, I wondered aloud, “The Prince Charming thing wasn’t cutting it, huh?”
“No, it wasn’t. But those weren’t the easiest times for a kid in the Midwest to put two and two together. I mean, there were no gay role models—only jokes and fear. So by the end of high school, I was still a virgin and thoroughly confused: Do I follow my heart and my instincts? Or do I throw in the towel and follow the expected path? Finally, just as I was beginning to sort this out, reaching a modicum of comfort with the person I knew myself to be—along came David Lovell—hell-bent on making a decision for me.”
“That’s horrible. I’m sorry.”
“It could have been worse,” she said, as if resigned to past circumstances that she was unable to change. “He didn’t get me pregnant. He didn’t get that far, not quite—I had to fight him off. And the scary part was, he was a friend, part of my circle, a jock, but nice enough, at least until he attacked me. It was after a party at another friend’s house, one weekend that spring before we graduated, with everyone feeling sort of grown-up. The house was a bigger, nicer one, out in a secluded area. David had been drinking—I could smell it—when he pinned me against his car. He wasn’t subtle. He was rough, and he wasted no time.”
Nancy paused, shaking her head to clear the memories.
“I managed to get away,” she continued. “But when I got home, I was scratched and bleeding. My clothes were torn. My parents blamed me, even though they had no idea who had done it. ‘Boys will be boys,’ they told me. Dad said, ‘I hope you’ve learned your lesson.’ Honest to God, I think they would’ve been thrilled to know that the revered David Lovell had chosen me as his target—everybody idolized him—so I refused to name him. I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. The bragging rights.”
I felt sickened by Nancy’s story and found myself at a loss for words.
“As you can imagine,” she said, “this left an emotional aftermath. College helped. It was a new environment with new people and new values, a good place to start over and grow up. I even had a girlfriend—or two, or three—lovers, with deep and real connections, but those relationships didn’t last. Back then, I told myself, it wasn’t the time for commitment. We were still in school, we had no idea where life would lead us. But now, many years later, I know exactly where life has led me, and it’s still the same. When someone gets too close, I push them away. It happened with Lucille Haring. I wish it hadn’t, but it did. And she’s gone.”
Tentatively, I reached to take Nancy’s hand. She readily grasped mine. I asked, “When David Lovell—the son—arrived in Dumont, did you make the connection right away?”
She nodded. “Not long after David took the job at St. Alban’s, while he was still getting settled in town, he came into the restaurant. Even from across the room, I spotted him at once. He was only a few years older than his father was when I knew him, and the resemblance was amazing. So I went over to introduce myself, as I would with any new customer. When he said his name, I winced. He told me he’d just moved from Appleton. He’d gone to the music school at Lawrence, and he’d also grown up there, so I asked if his parents were in Appleton. That’s when I learned that they’d died—and that his father was originally from Green Bay.”
I blew a low, breathy whistle. “Small world.”
Nancy mustered a laugh. “Yeah, tell me. Look, Brody. I tried—I really tried—not to let my feelings toward David senior color my feelings toward David junior, and at a purely rational level, they didn’t. I knew perfectly well, in my heart of hearts, that David bore no responsibility for his father’s crime. Much deeper, though, in my gut, I found it imp
ossible to separate the two. I felt, and will always feel, nothing but rage toward David senior. And now I feel, and will always feel, nothing but guilt for transferring those feelings to his son.”
Sitting there with Nancy, I felt her pain. Her ongoing confusion and the tussle of emotions were palpable. She had told me plainly that her rage for David the jock had surfaced as rage for David the choirmaster. Had that understandable transference led her to an indefensible act?
I told her again how sorry I was for the turmoil caused by David’s father. “But I can’t help wondering,” I said, “if attending yesterday’s memorial service might’ve helped bring some closure.”
“No,” she said decisively, slipping her hand from mine, “it was the right choice, not to go. My therapist agrees.”
Back at the loft that evening, I sat at the kitchen island with Mister Puss in my lap, gabbing with Marson while he fussed at the sink, doing a bit of prep work for the next night’s dinner. He asked over his shoulder, “Bottom line: Do you think Nancy murdered David?”
“I’ve been asking myself the same question. She built a credible motive when I talked to her today. She was well aware of David’s nut allergy. And basically anyone could have entered the church and spiked the macaroons with almond oil. But c’mon, the Nancy we know has never come across as a homicidal maniac.”
“Do they ever?”
My husband had a point. If the identity of David’s killer had been obvious, someone would be locked behind bars by now.
Two days earlier, during my confab with Sheriff Simms at his office, we had compared notes on all the known suspects. While drawing his suspect grid, Thomas asked me more than once, “Anyone else?” And I made no mention of Nancy because I had not yet talked to her and because the possibility of her guilt seemed too remote. Now, though, if I were being objective, I would need to place her near the top of the list. Simms deserved to know this.
I noticed that Marson had unwrapped the tenderloin that would be the centerpiece of tomorrow’s dinner, and he was now cutting small pieces of meat from the tapered ends of the raw roast. Mister Puss had jumped from my lap and was pacing the kitchen on high alert. I said, “I’m no culinary wiz, but I don’t think a tenderloin needs trimming.”
Marson replied plausibly, “I’ve always found the tips unsightly. They overcook. And besides”—he heaped the scraps into one of the small Art Deco bowls reserved for His Majesty—“since tonight will be our guest’s last supper under our roof, he might as well go out in style.”
Marson rinsed his hands and set the bowl on the floor.
We both watched, fawning, as Mister Puss pounced, indulging his inner carnivore.
Grrring.
Around eight o’clock, shortly before sunset, the rusty old bell at the street door of the loft announced that Mary Questman and Berta had returned from Chicago, driving the last leg of their journey from the airport in Green Bay.
We had set out all of Mister Puss’s things, and I could tell that Marson was feeling as saddened by the impending loss as I was. He added the canister of catnip to the other treats, and I had already gotten Mister Puss into his smart-looking leather harness. (Hoping the cat would cooperate and dazzle Mary with his newly acquired leash skills, I had taken the liberty of throwing out the cutesy nylon vest.)
When we opened the door, Mary bubbled into the room, thrilled with her trip, thrilled to be back, thrilled to see Mister Puss and us again. Berta, meanwhile, trudged dutifully back and forth to the car at the curb, loading the cat’s supplies.
“I had no idea,” said Mary, “that getting away would be so stimulating. The city. The culture. The camaraderie. The parties. Good heavens, it gives me half a mind to start traveling again! Some of the ladies I met, they were raving about a tour of Sedona. I think Berta and I might enjoy the … what are they, Berta?”
“Vortexes,” said Berta, hefting a box of the cat’s whatnot.
“Yes indeed,” Mary said gravely. “And sometimes, they have this … what is it?”
“Harmonic convergence.” Berta schlepped out to the car again.
To my surprise, Marson said, “What a delightful idea. You’d have a ball. And we’d be more than happy to look after the cat again.”
“Would you? Oh, how sweet. So he wasn’t too much trouble?”
“Not at all,” I said. “And I have a surprise.” I had rolled up the leather leash and placed it in my pocket. I now removed it and let it unfurl. “Mister Puss?”
He obediently stepped over to my feet and let me clip the leash to his harness. Then I walked him about the room, stopping and starting, demonstrating how he heeled.
Mary clapped with joy. “Will he do that for me?”
“I think so,” I said. I hope so, I thought as I handed her the leash.
The instant she took the leash, the cat flumped down to the floor on his side, looking up at me.
Looking at him, but speaking to Mary, I said grimly, “He’s fooling around.”
He broke his stare with a wink (or so it seemed). Then he hopped to his feet and let Mary walk him, performing perfectly.
“I can’t believe it,” she gushed. “How ever did you teach him?”
“He just sorta took to it.”
Mary offered profuse thanks and smooches. Amid a chorus of cheery good-byes, she, the cat, and Berta headed out into the gathering dusk of the street.
Then Mary stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. Mister Puss heeled as she turned back to look at Marson and me. “I almost forgot,” she said. “Did you hear the news?”
“About what?” I asked, concerned by her sober tone.
“Driving here from the airport, we had a Green Bay station on the radio. You know that cable person, Chad Percy, with his perfume or whatever? They were talking about him. They found him dead this afternoon. They say he was murdered.”
Mister Puss shot me a glance and held my gaze.
Chapter 15
It was not a leisurely Saturday morning at the loft. Marson and I were hosting a dinner party that night, which always carried an element of underlying stress, but far more perplexing was the news of Chad Percy’s death in Green Bay.
We were out of bed before sunrise, brewing coffee, waiting for the Dumont Daily Register to be delivered. By then we had learned details of the story on cable news, but I was curious to read how our local paper would treat it. Having phoned Sheriff Simms the night before, I knew he’d been interviewed.
When we heard the plop of the paper tossed at the front door, Marson retrieved it as I poured coffee. He set the paper on the counter, smoothed its creases, threw out the circulars along with the sports section, and then washed his hands as I read the front page.
Was it a hate crime?
Apparent murder of Green Bay cable star
baffles police in search of motive
Compiled from Register staff reports
•
MAY 28, DUMONT, WI — The discovery on Friday afternoon of cable personality Chad Percy’s lifeless body at his luxury condo in Green Bay has left local police searching for a motive in the apparent homicide. The victim was found by his houseman, Nan Yong, when he arrived with a delivery of dry cleaning. A report issued by police on the scene said there was no evidence of forced entry.
The coroner’s initial report speculated that Percy’s death had occurred at least twelve hours earlier, sometime overnight. The nude body was found in bed, and it appeared the victim had been choked or suffocated. Based on evidence at the scene, the report further speculated that Percy may have been date-drugged with a combination of Ambien and alcohol, but postmortem testing is required for conclusive findings.
Dumont County sheriff Thomas Simms conferred by phone last night with Green Bay law enforcement, as particular aspects of the Chad Percy case are similar to circumstances surrounding the recent death of David Lovell, who served as choirmaster of St. Alban’s parish in Dumont. The Lovell death, initially described as suspicious, is now being investigated as
a homicide.
Sheriff Simms noted that both of the victims were openly gay men, and suffocation played a role in both of the deaths. Does that mean the crimes are linked? Simms replied, “Look, two gay men have been murdered, nine days apart and 60 miles away from each other. Is that a pattern? Hard to tell.”
When asked if he felt the murders were hate crimes, Simms responded, “It’s a possibility, but at this point we simply don’t know. It all depends on motive, and in both cases, the motive is not yet apparent.”
News of Chad Percy’s death has sent shock waves far beyond central Wisconsin because of his regular cable cutaway segments, which have enjoyed a ratings surge since first being aired three years ago.
With a personality often described as flamboyant and engaging, Percy had become something of a poster boy for the “infotainment” trend, building a reputation as a glib raconteur as well as a serious commentator.
Demonstrating a keen business sense, Percy had parlayed his sudden popularity into a budding financial empire that was built on speaking tours, advice books, a sportswear label, and most recently, the introduction of a new fragrance line bearing his name.
Sunny Skyes, station manager and weather hostess at the Green Bay studios where Percy’s broadcasts originated, told the Register, “We’re stunned. We’re all in tears. Chad put us on the map. Now what?”
Plans for a public memorial were still pending at press time.
That afternoon, shortly before Nancy delivered the catered items for our dinner, the mail arrived. I tossed it on the kitchen island without sorting it, as I’d been busy polishing the stemware for our meal. When I was satisfied that the wineglasses were as spotless as they would get, I picked up the stack of mail and stepped over to the trash bin, since most of the items could be pitched without opening.
All that remained were a couple of bills and—aha—an envelope addressed to me from St. Alban’s rectory, with Lillie Miller’s name written in tight, tiny cursive above the imprinted return address.
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