Boy Toy

by Michael Craft

  “Nah.” With a smile, she stood, excused herself, and left for the lobby.

  Leaning toward Roxanne, I told her, “Thanks for rushing up here today. The situation with Thad isn’t quite a crisis, but the—”

  “Mark,” she interrupted, leaning forward, mirroring my posture, “as I mentioned on the phone last night, I really think we need to talk. As for Thad, well of course I’m more than happy to offer legal advice, moral support, or whatever it takes. Meanwhile, though, I’ve been dealing with some…issues. And you and Neil are really the only guys I care to turn to with this.”

  Pointedly, I asked, “What about Carl? Or is Carl the, uh, ‘issue.’ ”

  Sitting back, she nodded—it was a tiny wobble of the head, barely perceptible, but it spoke volumes.

  She didn’t seem prepared to offer more, but since she herself had steered our discussion to this topic, I asked, “Where is Carl this weekend? We haven’t seen him in a while.”

  Again she nodded. “Springfield, naturally.”

  I shrugged, minimizing the implications of his absence. “He’s a deputy attorney general. It’s no surprise that he needs to spend time in the state capital.”

  “No, Mark”—she wagged a hand—“it’s not just the time in Springfield. It’s—”

  “Wait,” I told her, my turn to interrupt. “Here comes Lucy with Doug Pierce. Maybe we should continue this later.”

  “Thanks, Mark.” She smiled. It wasn’t clear if she was grateful for the warning or the offer to talk later or both.

  I stood as Pierce crossed the newsroom and walked into my office with Lucy. “Hey, Doug,” I told him, “thanks for coming over on a Saturday.” I shook his hand, but also pulled him close in something of a half hug, a body brush.

  He clapped my shoulder (he’d always been much more adept than I at that sort of guy stuff), quipping, “I’m a public servant, Mark. Your wish is my command. Though I must repeat”—his look turned serious—“this meeting strikes me as unorthodox at best.” Then, turning to Roxanne, he smiled, bowing his head. “My favorite barrister.” And he shook her hand warmly, clasping it with both of his.

  “Hi, Doug,” Roxanne answered, sounding suddenly chipper, “nice to see you again.” Her grin betrayed the lusty interest she’d always had in him, even since the previous autumn, when our speculation was ended and we learned unequivocally that, yes, Pierce was gay. No doubt about it, Roxanne had a habit of falling for gay men (Neil and me, for instance, before she introduced us), which is why both Neil and I had greeted with cautious optimism her evolving relationship with Carl Creighton—the proper, well-bred, divorced, old-school sort of Brooks Brothers legal genius for whom the term straight had been invented. If things were now deteriorating between Roxanne and Carl, I shuddered to think how she might react to their failed romance, fearing she might revert to her old self-deceptive (and self-destructive) exploits.

  Equally unsettling were the odd cross-dynamics now at work in my outer office. Lesbian Lucy was pining over straight Roxanne, who was off-limits, while Roxanne entertained visions of undressing the openly gay sheriff, also off-limits. Pierce’s inscrutable libido was, as always, kept well in check, while I couldn’t help wondering (just wondering) if he ever thought of me “that way.” The whole setup defined the very notion of sexual tension.

  “So,” said Pierce, “what have we got?” He, Lucy, and I joined Roxanne, sitting around the table.

  I began by summarizing, mainly for Roxanne’s benefit, “At a rehearsal last Wednesday, Thad and another young actor, Jason Thrush, got into a verbal pissing match. Jason started it. Thad ended it by paraphrasing a threatening line from the scene they’d just rehearsed—Thad told Jason that he ‘may not live till opening night.’ Sure enough, last night, Jason didn’t make it to the theater, Thad stepped into the leading role, and minutes after Thad’s triumphal performance began, Jason’s fright case of a sister found Jason at home, dead of unknown causes. Right after the show, as soon as news of Jason’s death got out, speculation began to spread that Thad had made good on his promise.”

  Roxanne looked toward the ceiling, thinking. “So then,” she said, “you’ve got two distinct problems. First, how did Jason die? And second, how do you shift the focus away from Thad?”

  “Precisely.”

  Pierce cautioned, “I need to keep an open mind about this, Mark. That second question is your concern, not mine.”

  Lucy skipped past that, saying, “The cleanest, most obvious answer to the second question is simply to answer the first. Once it’s shown that Jason died of natural causes, which I assume to be the case, any question of Thad’s possible involvement disappears.”

  I told everyone, “That’s exactly how I hope it’ll play out, but for Thad’s sake, it needs to happen fast. Good God, I know Thad didn’t kill Jason, and I have no doubt that the facts will exonerate him—eventually. By then, though, some serious damage may be done.”

  Roxanne didn’t understand my concern. “You mean his…‘reputation’?”

  “No, not at all. Well, sort of. Look, in the last year, Thad has managed to pull himself out of a nasty adolescent funk. Now he’s taking school seriously, he’s making friends, and he’s getting ‘into’ things—most notably, theater. Suddenly, his newfound friends are turning against him, thinking him capable of murder. That’s bound to put a crimp in his ego. And if the investigation drifts on inconclusively for a few weeks, as it often does when toxicology is involved, this whole mess will follow Thad back to school—at the start of his senior year, no less.” Frustrated, I paused to rub my forehead. With a sigh I concluded, “He just doesn’t need this, not now. He’s at a vulnerable juncture in his life. I don’t want to see him hurt.”

  I must have sniffled—Pierce leaned over and patted my arm. There there now.

  He said, “I want to get this wrapped up as quickly as you do. But you’re right, Mark—the investigation of a death that’s merely ‘suspicious’ can indeed drag on because we simply don’t know what we’re looking for. So you might want to bring your own investigative talents to the fore. My own limited police mission at this point is to determine the cause of Jason’s death, which may not go far enough or fast enough to serve your mission of clearing Thad of suspicion before the gossip gets out of control.”

  I must have sniffled again—now Lucy was leaning to pat my other arm, a warm gesture inconsistent with her usual no-nonsense manner, her stiff bearing.

  She told me, “I’ll do whatever I can, Mark. Depend on me. Besides, this is sure to make a great story. After all, we could use a few scorching midsummer headlines, and if, in the process, we also get Thad off the hook, all the better.” She sat back in her chair and jogged the pile of manila folders she’d brought from the paper’s morgue. “The sheriff’s right—we don’t know what we’re looking for, but it’s never too early to start digging. I’ve pulled everything we’ve got on the Thrush family as well as the Thrush business. There’s quite a bit, but I’ll study it all, and when I’m through with that, I’ll get busy on the computer.”

  This was the Lucille Haring I’d known, respected, and hired. She was a loyal, dedicated worker, a skilled researcher, and a peerless computer wiz. Her rare bouts of ditsiness erupted only with Roxanne on the scene, and even now, with the object of her desire mere inches away, Lucy was back in control, telling me things I needed to hear.

  Not to be upstaged by this outpouring of support, Roxanne rose from her chair and glided around the table, stopping behind me. She placed her hands on my shoulders and told the others, “I’ve known Mark longer than anyone in this room, and I’ve never known him to back off from the challenge of righting a wrong. As a reporter, as a man, and now as a father, he’s been tireless in the unpuzzling of perplexities, whether petty or dastardly. This I tell you: if foul play has again wounded the collective psyche of fair Dumont, Mark Manning will not rest till truth be bared, justice served. To this same end, I pledge the assistance of my own meager skills. Behind
him I stand.”

  Puh-leeze. Screwing my neck, I looked up into her face.

  “How was that?” she asked.

  “Plastic. Mawkish. Inflated to the point of insincerity.”

  “Take it or leave it, bud.”

  Bending my head, I kissed her fingers on my shoulder. “Thanks, Roxanne.”

  She fluffed the hair on my temples, then stepped back a pace, crossing her arms. All business now, she asked, “Where are we?”

  Pierce reviewed the known facts: “Jason Thrush was found dead at home by his sister shortly after eight o’clock last night. Based on the observed condition of the corpse, Vernon Formhals estimated the time of death to be a few hours earlier, between five and six. For the previous several days, Jason had exhibited symptoms that were assumed to indicate a bad summer cold. He was found fully clothed, lying facedown on his bed; we don’t know whether he collapsed there or if he had lain down, then died. The body showed no signs of physical trauma, and the room showed no signs of a struggle. How did Jason die? In short, it’s a mystery.”

  Listening to this, Roxanne had returned to her chair. She sat, thinking, teeth pinching her lower lip. She then said, “Logically, we have three possibilities: he died of a bad cold, which seems unlikely; or he died of some other natural cause, possibly an illness with coldlike symptoms; or he was murdered, the victim of foul play, such as poisoning. Have I missed anything?”

  Lucy shook her head. “That would seem to cover it.” She tapped her pencil on a pad, where she had drawn a grid. With her other hand, she raked her fingers straight back through her short red hair. “Wait,” she said, zeroing in on the blank fourth square she had drawn. “Poisoning isn’t necessarily foul play—it could be accidental.”

  Pierce and I exchanged a glance, nodding.

  “Good point,” said Roxanne. “I stand corrected—we have four possibilities.” She turned to Pierce. “A complete medical-legal autopsy is under way, I presume?”

  “Yup. Vernon said he’d get going on the physical examination this morning.” Pierce looked at his watch; it was about two-thirty. “The lab work could still take a while—weeks, in fact—but Vernon ought to be through with the grisly stuff. Maybe he has some initial findings.” Pierce turned to me, indicating the phone on the table. “Shall I try to catch him?”

  “Sure,” Roxanne and Lucy answered for me, in unison.

  I laughed. “By all means. Go ahead, Doug.”

  He pulled the phone over to him, lifted the receiver, and punched in the number. A moment later: “Hi, Vernon, it’s Doug. Glad I caught you in. Any progress with the Thrush boy?”

  Pierce nodded as he listened, reached for a notepad, then reconsidered, telling the coroner, “Vernon, hold on. I’m here with Mark Manning at the Register’s offices. We’re doing some brainstorming with his editor and a lawyer friend. Do you mind if I switch you to the speaker-phone so we can all talk?”

  Pierce listened for a moment, then chuckled. He told me, “Vernon says he’ll tell you what he knows, but it’s off-the-record at this point.”

  “No problem.” I reached across the table and pushed the speaker button.

  Pierce hung up the receiver, asking, “Still there, Vernon?”

  “Yes, Douglas.” Formhals’s rich baritone was barely recognizable through the low-fi electronics, sounding like a transmission from the moon.

  “Good afternoon, Doctor,” I told him. “Thanks for talking to us.” I knew that he and Lucy were acquainted, but I couldn’t recall if he and Roxanne had met, so I made a proper round of introductions. Then I asked if he could share any findings regarding Jason Thrush.

  “Please understand,” he told us, “that this is all very preliminary. Results of the external and internal examinations were inconclusive, and further testing, including toxicology, is necessary. At this point, there’s very little I can confirm.”

  Looking up from the notes I was scratching, I asked, “And that would be…?”

  “For starters, we can conclude that Jason’s time of death was between five and six yesterday, as initially estimated. Further, the mechanism of death was respiratory failure, but that doesn’t tell you what you need to know—yes, he stopped breathing, but why? There are many conditions and circumstances that could be responsible. As of now, the specific cause of death is unknown.”

  Roxanne asked, “So we’re back to square one?”

  “Oh, no, not by a long shot. I found several rather conspicuous conditions that provide valuable hints regarding the direction of further testing. Specifically, Jason’s body was severely dehydrated, and closing of the throat was noted, as was the presence of copious mucus in the mouth and throat.”

  I said, “Even I noticed the mucus in the mouth.”

  Pierce added, “It was hard to miss.”

  “Are you saying,” asked Roxanne, “that the kid choked on his own snot?”

  There was a pause. The coroner coughed, then said, “In effect, yes.”

  Pierce said, “So it wasn’t ‘just a cold.’ ”

  “Actually,” said Formhals, “it was. He had a common cold, albeit a bad one. I found no evidence of other medical conditions that would mimic those symptoms. In fact, he was in excellent health.”

  Lucy made the obvious comment: “Except, he was dead.”

  “As a doornail,” confirmed the coroner (whose sense of humor was dry, at best). “Let me explain. Even though Jason’s illness was ‘just a cold,’ something else apparently exacerbated the symptoms so seriously that he choked, which in turn led to respiratory failure.”

  “Doctor,” I told him, “you have our undivided attention. You referred to ‘something else.’ Like what?”

  He paused before telling us, “Poisoning.”

  “My God,” muttered Lucy.

  “Specifically,” added Formhals, “mushroom poisoning.”

  “Mushrooms?” said Roxanne, incredulous.

  “Uh-oh,” said Pierce, catching my eye.

  Formhals continued, “It’s merely a theory, and there are still several possibilities that need to be explored, but the boy’s symptoms—dehydration, closed throat, and copious mucus—do strongly suggest certain types of mushroom poisoning. Of course, the stomach contents still need to be analyzed, so we don’t know yet whether the subject ingested mushrooms, and still further testing will be required to detect the presence of particular toxins. Still, there is nothing to indicate whether the manner of death was accidental or deliberate. For now, though, the mushroom theory is the best one we have, so…”

  The coroner was still talking, but I’d tuned out. Pierce was still watching me, and I was worried. It was bad enough that Thad had threatened Jason, but now there was talk of mushroom poisoning, and during the previous school year, Thad had become quite the young expert in this area. I had no doubt of his innocence in Jason’s death, but it was clear that Pierce now had one more reason not to let our friendship cloud his objectivity.

  Formhals concluded, “I’ll try to put a rush on the tests—not sure it’ll do any good, though. Everyone’s in a hurry when the evidence takes a turn toward murder.”

  The rest of the afternoon was lost to fretting. I returned to the house with Roxanne, and we informed Neil of the coroner’s disturbing theory, deciding not to mention it to Thad yet—he had a performance that night, as well as the party afterward, so there was plenty on his mind already.

  “Crap,” I said to Neil in the bedroom that evening as we dressed to go to the theater. “This mushroom wrinkle is way out of my league. It leaves me feeling so helpless—I mean helpless to help Thad. My knowledge of fungi is nil.”

  Tying a perfect Windsor with a quick, fluid motion, Neil reminded me, “We have a friend who’s a mycologist—at least I do.”

  I paused midknot, feeling like an idiot. “Of course. Frank Gelden, the adviser to the mushroom club at school—he might be a great resource for pinning down particulars that could exonerate Thad before this whole mess spins out of control. You know F
rank far better than I do. Do you think he’d be willing to help?”

  “Oh, I think so,” Neil answered through a coy grin. “Since I started working on the home-office project with Cynthia, both she and Frank have mentioned several times that they’d like to get to know us better. They’ll be here at the party tonight. Let’s nab Frank and tell him about the coroner’s theory. I don’t know if Frank could actually be of help, but if nothing else, I’m sure the mushroom angle would intrigue him.”

  I nodded. “Worth a try.” Sprucing the knot of my tie, I mulled Neil’s comment that Frank and his wife were eager to know us. I had not yet met Cynthia, and I had spoken to Frank only once, but he’d surely sparked my interest. The prospect of a budding friendship appealed to me.

  Shortly after seven-thirty, I drove Neil and Roxanne to the theater, where Pierce would meet us. Because Barb had already seen Thad play the leading role in Friday’s opening, she felt that her time would be better spent on last-minute spiffing for the cast party that night, so she decided to stay home, promising Thad she’d attend the show again the next weekend.

  In the car, Neil and I continued to gab about the vexing implications of the coroner’s mushroom theory. Neil was in the backseat, and I was at the wheel, with Roxanne sitting next to me in front. During a pause in the conversation, I realized that she hadn’t said a word since getting into the car.

  “Jeez,” I said, turning to her, “I’m sorry, Roxanne. I forgot—there’s something you’ve been wanting to discuss with us.”

  She patted my leg. “That’s okay.” Her tone was sincere, though shaded by melancholy. “You guys are concerned about Thad—we all are. My ‘little issue’ can wait. Maybe we can find some time to talk later tonight.”

  “Of course,” we assured her. “Just say when.”

  Turning onto First Avenue, I was surprised by the sight of congested traffic down the street in front of the playhouse. I had presumed that the previous night’s performance, being the premiere, would draw the biggest crowd—and in fact the theater had been full—but tonight there were far more cars, and a line of people wormed its way from the box office past the next-door antiques store. “Glad we have tickets,” I told the others.