Although our hostess had insisted there was nothing we could bring, Marson was the type who could never show up empty-handed, so earlier that afternoon, I had fetched a showy arrangement of big summer flowers—tiger lilies, snapdragons, gladiolas—which now bobbed and swayed as I carried them up the long driveway, under the porte cochère, and around the rear corner of the house, emerging into the expansive backyard, where the festivities were already under way.
Mary spotted us at once and rushed over to greet us. Mister Puss strutted at her side on his leash, looking exotic and wild (even more so than usual) as he stalked through the tall grass.
Mary handed me the cat’s leash and offered smooches as I passed the flowers to Marson, who presented them to Mary, who then passed them off to Berta, standing nearby. Mary told her, “Find a nice spot for these on the serving table.”
Berta took the flowers and made a facetious show of a curtsy before heading off with them.
Mary told us brightly, “I think we’re going to do it. We’ve been home from Chicago for a week now, and I thought the urge might pass, but it seems I’ve caught the travel bug. We’ll be going to Sedona in a few months. To find the vortexes—or whatever.”
I wondered if Berta had been baking peyote treats.
“It’s a mystical place,” said Marson. “So much history and legend.”
While Mary and Marson gabbed, laughing, I picked up Mister Puss and rubbed his ears. He purred.
Bar’s open.
Mary said, “Now, I want you boys to make yourselves at home. I think you know everyone. One of the girls will get you a drink, or you can help yourselves in the kitchen. And I hope you came hungry—the food won’t be long.” The air was scented with grilling meat. Mister Puss purred.
Marson and I drifted into the amiable crowd while Mary moved away to mingle. The “girls” Mary had mentioned were employees of Nancy Sanderson, who was working the party as well as attending it. I noticed that Nia Butler, the code enforcer, had cornered Nancy for a quiet conversation, much as I had seen her do at David’s memorial service. Unless I was mistaken, their giddy chitchat appeared to have flirty overtones. My, my.
Marson asked one of the girls for a gin and tonic—very summery. Still holding Mister Puss, I declined. I couldn’t juggle a cocktail and a cat.
Marson broke away to talk shop with Joyce Hibbard, who stood—rather imperiously, I thought—at the center of the large flagstone terrace, where she could see, and be seen by, everyone in attendance. Cicadas had begun to buzz from the heights of the surrounding trees.
“Brody, sweets.”
I turned to find Glee standing behind me, posing with a champagne flute, wearing mostly white—with a big red hat, big red purse, and big red lips.
“Hi, doll.” I offered a peck, avoiding the lipstick. Mister Puss stretched to my shoulder.
“Well, love, I understand you did it again. Maybe it’s my news sense, but I think you ought to get at least some of the credit.”
I shook my head, assuring her, “I don’t want it. Not being modest—just thought I should help. Plus … well, I myself had a bit of help.” I petted the cat. He hadn’t stopped purring.
Good job, kiddo.
Glee asked, “What sort of help?”
Coyly, I replied, “That’s a secret.”
She smirked.
“Hey, Brody!” It was Sheriff Simms, approaching with a smile. He shook my hand, then gave me a hug—which may have been a first. “Thanks, man. You oughta get a medal or something.”
“Thomas, don’t go there.”
“Okay,” said Glee, “I’ve heard this song.” She raised her glass as a parting gesture before moving off into the crowd.
“Know what?” said Simms. “We did a voiceprint analysis of the Chinesey phone threats left for Chad Percy before he was killed. And we did another of the recording made in my office Tuesday, when Olson mocked his wife with that high-pitched voice. You were right: they matched. That alone won’t convict Olson, but combined with all the other evidence—the accountants are having a field day—Olson’s cooked.”
“Glad to help.”
Simms gave me a slow, deliberate wink of gratitude. Then he moved off to join Gloria and their little Tommy.
I watched as the Simmses spoke with Geoff Lovell and his girlfriend, Spark Kavanaugh, who tried to put on a happy face for the gathering, but she seemed to be dealing with another bout of early-pregnancy nausea. I hoped the crackle and smell of charred bratwurst wouldn’t be too much for her. They had Cindy the dog with them, romping with Tommy Simms. Cindy appeared to be totally cured of whatever had ailed her.
And then the dog and Tommy were joined in play by Aiden Weber Schmidt, the four-year-old son of Tyler and Kayla. His parents strolled through the crowd looking content with life and with each other. I reminded myself to nab Tyler later and discuss his steel totems—I was working on a library and a perfect house and any number of other projects that his artwork might complement.
Three doctors huddled near the grill—the medical examiner, the vet, and my own physician—breathing smoke and inhaling the evening while speaking of life and death.
Lillie Miller, the parish secretary, drifted waiflike, smiling now and then at someone but looking lost, tippling from a glass of pale wine while the chattering locusts grew louder, pleading for the sun to set.
With his chin on my shoulder, Mister Puss purred.
“I want to show you something,” said Mary Questman, appearing out of nowhere.
“Oh?” I said. “What is it?”
I’ve seen better.
“Come along and find out.” With a wag of her finger, she led me across the terrace and into the house.
In the kitchen, after the screen door swung closed, I set Mister Puss on the floor and unclipped his leash, which I rolled up and stowed in my pocket. The cat followed at my heels as Mary led me out to the front hall and then entered the small parlor.
From the middle of the room, she turned, gesturing back toward the doorway.
I turned—and gaped. There, on an expanse of the refined brocade wallpaper, hung the ugly old painting of the man with a horse and a monkey. Mister Puss gazed up at me with a smart-alecky look. “I, uh”—I struggled for something to say—“I’ve seen this before.”
With a chuckle, Mary asked from the side of her mouth, “Isn’t it hideous?”
“In fact,” I agreed, “it is.”
She explained, “The man is Quincy Franklin Questman, my late husband’s grandfather, lovingly known in the family as Quincy the First. He had a perverse sense of humor, I’m afraid. Back in those days, there wasn’t much culture in Dumont. One of those itinerant portrait painters from back East rolled through town with his wagon and an assortment of unfinished paintings. You could buy the one you liked, then have your head inserted. Quincy, naturally, snapped up the monkey. His wife couldn’t stand it—said she couldn’t sleep with that little demon in the house—so Quincy made a big show of ‘donating’ the picture to the courthouse, where it hung for many years. But eventually, it was put in storage, and later still, it ended up in the sheriff’s offices. Recently, I’m told, they were doing some remodeling and almost threw the painting out—perhaps they should have—but then they called in the historical society. Their staff hauled it away and did the research. Then the young lady, Kayla, came to see me and offered to return the portrait to the Questman family. I’d often heard of the painting, so I was thrilled to accept it.” Mary paused. “Then I saw it.”
“Well,” I told her, only half joking, “it’s a striking conversation piece.”
She squeezed my arm. “You’re too kind.” With a hoot, she strolled out of the parlor and headed back to her guests.
My phone vibrated. I glanced at the screen. “Uh-oh,” I told Mister Puss. Marson had forwarded to me an email from Curtis Hibbard. I sat to read the message in one of the quilted-chintz armchairs. The cat hopped up to perch on the back of the chair, peering over my shoulder.
<
br /> From: Curtis Hibbard
To: Marson Miles
So you convinced Mary Questman to cover half the funding for a new church, did you? And I’m on the hook for the other half? Honest to God, Marson, I don’t know whether to throttle you—or thank you.
It could have been worse, I suppose. I might have been stuck with the whole nut to crack. From that perspective, I got off easy. And now, moving forward, my Poopsie will be busy as a bee out there, leaving me more room to maneuver. (Yes, it’s true what they say: happy wife, happy life.)
Although my last visit turned out to be far more costly than planned, I must admit that it was awfully good to see you again. So I’ll be back.
And during that next visit, ho-ho, I do hope to spend more time with your young man.
Best regards,
Curtis Hibbard, Founding Partner
Hibbard Belding & Smith, LLP
New York • London • Berlin
Ugh. I deleted the email and flumped back in the chair. Mister Puss touched his nose to my cheek. I reached up to twiddle his chin.
The doorbell rang.
Mister Puss leapt from the chair and shot out of the room, into the hall. When I arrived a few seconds later, the cat was sitting within an inch of the door, switching his tail in curious anticipation of the new arrival. The chime sounded again.
I looked down the hall, but there was no one in the kitchen; everyone was out back. So I picked up the cat and opened the front door. “Well, hello there,” I said brightly.
“Hi.” He was handsome (very), probably late-thirties, about my age. Great smile, nicely dressed, with a solid sense of style. Not a blip from my gaydar, though; he was straight. And although he looked familiar, I was sure we hadn’t met. He asked, “Is Mrs. Questman in?”
“No, but she’s in back. She has some people over.”
“Yeah, I saw the cars. Hey, beautiful cat.”
“This is Mister Puss. He’s Mary’s cat. Please, come in.”
“Thanks.” The visitor stepped inside and patted the cat’s head; the purring began. “You see, I used to live next door—while I was in high school—gosh, can’t believe it was almost twenty years ago.”
I closed the door, feeling confused. “I seem to recognize you, but I haven’t been in Dumont that long.”
With a modest shrug, he said, “I’ve done some film.” Then he added, “And a soap.”
“Really?”
He extended his hand. “Thad Manning.”
Adjusting the cat, I shook his hand—nice grip. I said, “Brody Norris.”
“Pleased to meet you, Brody.” Again the smile. The perfect, veneered teeth.
I heard Mary bustle into the kitchen from outdoors. She tootled, “Did I hear the door?”
Thad Manning called to her, “You sure did, Mrs. Questman.”
She stepped into the hall and stopped short with a gasp. “Thad? Oh, my God!” I stepped aside as she rushed forward and greeted the new arrival with a full embrace. Then she held him at arm’s length, asking, “You remember Glee Savage, don’t you? She worked for your uncle Mark.”
“Of course. You mean, she’s here? Glee’s here?”
“You bet. Come on.” Mary took Thad by the hand and led him out through the kitchen.
Rubbing the cat’s ears, I wondered aloud, “What was that all about?”
Not a clue.
Then I set Mister Puss on the floor and crouched to clip the leash to his harness. “We should get back to the party.”
He trotted at my side as I walked through the kitchen and went outdoors.
Standing on the terrace, I watched a dreamy scene unfold, in which the deep azure sky of evening slipped quickly to the indigo of dusk. Planets peeked through the blackened foliage, while underneath, Mary’s guests mingled, ate, and drank, taking pleasure in the simple joy of their togetherness.
On that warm Wisconsin night, from the far side of the lawn, my husband broke into a smile as he spotted me across the gathering of our friends and neighbors. Marson blew me a kiss, which took flight like a lazy moth, fluttering toward me, buffeted by eddies of conversation and gentle laughter.
The buzz of locusts swelled from the canopy of trees.
A summer song of crickets pulsed from a living Earth.
And at my feet sat Mister Puss, watching, hearing, wondering. His primal purr …
blending with the chorus of the night …
spoke to me.
•
Acknowledgments
When I set out a year ago to introduce the reading world to Mister Puss in FlabberGassed, I had no idea whether the notion would fly or not. I wasn’t even sure how to explain the concept: “It’s a gay cat mystery. I mean, the amateur sleuth is gay, not the cat. And the cat talks. Sort of.” Somehow, the seeming absurdity of that premise proved to be the very aspect of the story that drew so many readers to the book. And their ringing enthusiasm is what gave me the confidence to proceed with this unlikely series.
First, then, I would like to acknowledge and thank you, my readers, for wanting this next installment, ChoirMaster, Mister Puss Mystery #2.
Further, I could not have brought ChoirMaster to publication without the help of many friends and associates, including David Grey, Richard Strattan, and Bruce Wilkin, for their guidance with various plot details. For their keen attention to the words on the page, I thank James Karela, Amy Knupp, Barbara McReal, and Larry Warnock. A special note of gratitude goes to Lynn DeTurk, who contributed her evocative poem, “Gregorian Cat Chants,” which serves as the epigraph to this volume.
Looking much further back, I want to extend an overdue thank-you to Allan W. Osborne, my high school English teacher and theater director, known to all as Oz. Both in the classroom and onstage, he not only taught me the workings of a plot but also inspired me to write.
As always, my agent, Mitchell Waters, has been generous with his encouragement and wise counsel. And my husband, Leon Pascucci, has been a steady font of patience, support, and good cheer. My sincere thanks to all.
— Michael Craft
About the author
Michael Craft is the author of sixteen novels, including the acclaimed Mark Manning mystery series, from which three installments were honored as finalists for Lambda Literary Awards: Name Games (2000), Boy Toy (2001), and Hot Spot (2002). In addition, he is the author of two produced plays, and his prize-winning short fiction has appeared in British as well as American literary journals.
Craft grew up in Illinois and spent his middle years in Wisconsin, which inspired the fictitious setting of this book. He holds an MFA in creative writing from Antioch University, Los Angeles, and now lives in Rancho Mirage, California.
In 2017, Michael Craft’s professional papers were acquired by the Special Collections Department of the Rivera Library at the University of California, Riverside. A comprehensive archive of his manuscripts, working notes, correspondence, and other relevant documents, along with every edition of his completed works, is now cataloged and made available for both scholarly research and public enjoyment.
Visit the author’s website:
www.michaelcraft.com
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