Boy Toy

by Michael Craft

  Leaving them to their black trumpets, I found Roxanne in the center hall, chatting with Sheriff Pierce, Glee Savage, and Lucille Haring, who’d all arrived together. Glee was explaining to the others that Thad had been much better the night before, that the mood of the audience had soured.

  I butted in. “Thad just shrugged it off. He says every audience is different.”

  Glee clutched her enormous purse. “I wish I could be that resilient.”

  We all agreed that kids were a mystery, even though we’d all been there ourselves. As we continued to compare notes, the front door kept opening with each new arrival.

  Denny Diggins walked in, looking a bit shaken by the odd turn his show had taken that night. Putting our past animosities aside, I stepped over to him, observing, “You seem to be in need of alcohol.”

  “Thank you, Mahk.” He fluttered his eyelids. “That would be mah-velous.”

  And I steered him toward the kitchen.

  Our guests seemed to be finding everything, and everyone already knew each other, so my hostly duties were minimal. I didn’t see Neil about, and Roxanne was still gabbing with her group, so I felt free to wander and observe.

  The house had never looked better. Both Barb and Neil had outdone themselves in their weeklong efforts to make sure Thad would shine as lord of our manor that night. In addition to the bounty of Barb’s buffet (which seemed to be available at every turn, not only in the dining room), Neil had cleverly decorated the entire first floor, combining seasonal wildflowers and branches with theatrical-themed items (masks, megaphones, oversize marquee letters, even a clunky old spotlight fixture that anchored the centerpiece of the main table). The kids loved it, the parents were suitably wowed, and for the moment, at least, no one was openly voicing the belief that my nephew was a calculating killer—on balance, not a bad night.

  Still, Jason’s mysterious death was the hot topic of conversation that evening. Drifting from room to room, I kept an eye on my guests’ needs and, more important, an ear on their chatter. Huddled on chairs or sprawled on the floor, clumps of kids gossiped and squealed about Jason’s demise. Even though the coroner had not yet ruled out natural causes, everyone now giddily assumed that Jason had been murdered, and there was no shortage of theories as to whodunit or why. I noted as well that, among the troupe of young actors, there was no lack of drama in the scenarios discussed. Suspicion fingered everyone that night.

  “Jason was a quarterback at Unity,” said one of Thad’s classmates from Central High. “I don’t know his teammates, but I’ll just bet there was some fierce rivalry there—and practice starts in a couple of weeks.”

  “What about that coach?” asked someone else. “You know, the young one, the assistant. They had some big run-in at the end of last season. I heard that he tried to throw Jason off the team, but his rich old dad paid someone off.”

  Yet another: “Nah, the team needed him. Maybe they didn’t like Jason, but I doubt if they’d just…kill him.”

  “Mr. Quimby would’ve,” said someone from Unity.

  “Who?”

  “The driver’s ed teacher. He had a real…‘problem’ with Jason.”

  “What driver’s ed teacher doesn’t have ‘problems’?” asked another, cracking everyone up.

  “Hold on,” said a girl. “What about that old guy we’ve noticed hanging around the theater? Someone said he stinks.”

  “That derelict? The stranger with a beard?”

  While they debated the pros and cons of the deadly derelict, I couldn’t help thinking of the Old Man, the minor role played by a heavily costumed Tommy Morales. At dress rehearsal, Thad had mentioned, “You’d never know Tommy in that getup.” Had Tommy perhaps put disguises to more sinister use?

  Now Thad told the group, “Here’s an idea: What if Jason wasn’t murdered, but died of fright or something? I mean, opening night, and he was already sick—he could have just keeled over.”

  Thad’s suggestion, which struck me as no less likely than others that had been floated, was met with a conspicuous, awkward silence. Finally, someone said, “That’s pretty far-fetched, Thad. Jason was an experienced actor. He wouldn’t just ‘die of fright.’ ” Others were quick to join in dismissing Thad’s idea, and their collective skepticism spoke volumes: many of those present did indeed wonder if Thad had something to hide.

  Turning away from the group, I noticed Lucille Haring standing alone near the front door and intended to ask her if she’d found anything of interest in the Register’s files on the Thrush family, but someone tapped my shoulder.

  “Mr. Manning? Do you have a second?” It was Thad’s friend Kwynn. I smiled and was about to say something, but she signaled with a turn of her head that we should move away from the circle of young actors. What’s more, I read in her features a clear look of concern.

  “What is it, Kwynn?”

  When we had moved into the front hall, away from the group’s glances, she said, “I’m worried about Thad, Mr. Manning.”

  Unsure where she was heading, I suggested, “His performance was a bit off tonight, but I think he’s just tired.”

  “Not that.” Her face wrinkled. Reluctantly, she explained, “It’s Jason’s death. Thad won’t admit it, but it’s really getting to him—I can tell.”

  “It was a shock to everyone, of course.”

  “But it’s worse for Thad, Mr. Manning. You see, a lot of people seem to think that Thad…well, this is hard to say, but they think that Thad actually had something to do with it, which is crazy. Nobody’s said it to his face, as far as I know, but it’s obvious what they’re thinking, and Thad knows it too. I can sense it in his mood. He’s different.”

  My features must have fallen while I listened to her words, which confirmed my fears, because suddenly she was eyeing me with a look of deep concern. “I didn’t mean to upset you, Mr. Manning. I’m sorry if—”

  “No, Kwynn”—I mustered a smile and a soft laugh—“don’t apologize. I’m glad you shared this with me. Keep an eye on him, okay? We’ll pull him through it.”

  “Sure we will,” she said, mirroring my smile. “We’ll both keep on eye on him. He’ll be fine. Won’t he?”

  I nodded, perhaps convincing her, if not myself.

  She returned to her friends, and a moment later, I noticed that she was sitting next to Thad, joining in the fun, embroiled in the whodunit. It was nothing more than adolescent gossip, first whispered in clusters about other kids there at the party, then dismissed in gales of laughter—their way of “dealing with it,” I guess.

  At the height of all this morbid humor, a particularly hearty outburst was nipped short by the sudden appearance of Mica Thrush, a late arrival. Blushed faces told me that I wasn’t the only one whose suspicions had been aroused by the vampirish Miss Thrush. She whisked through the front door, slamming it behind her, commanding silence. When all heads turned, she explained to everyone, “I’ve come to represent the memory of my dear—late—little brother.” A momentary smile bent her oily, black lips, then she sauntered to the buffet table and found a radish, which she would graze on all night, chewing it with tiny, rodentlike nibbles.

  “Correct me if I’m wrong,” said Lucille Haring, sidling up to me, “but that must be the bereaved Mica.”

  With a grin I asked my editor, “However did you guess?”

  “According to my research, Jason had just one sister, Mica. She’d be…oh, twenty-one now, I believe.”

  “I was meaning to ask you about the Register’s files. Anything of interest?”

  “The Thrushes are a prominent Dumont family, so there was plenty of material, but little of interest—other than the frightening Miss Mica.”

  After a tantalizing pause, I cocked my head as if to ask, Well…?

  Lucy explained, “Four years ago, during her junior year at Unity High, Mica Thrush was expelled from school. She was taking biology, with a first-period lab session. One morning, claiming she’d done it ‘for extra credit,’ she br
ought in and unveiled for the class a neighbor’s cat that she had freshly vivisected—it was still warm.”

  “Good Lord.”

  “The incident traumatized many of her classmates. Some refused to set foot in the lab again; others couldn’t sleep; most of them ended up in some form of counseling or therapy. She’d pulled sick pranks before, but this was the last straw for school administrators. Neither her father’s loot nor his influence could get them to reverse the expulsion.”

  “Then what? Off to a good, expensive—remote—Swiss school?”

  Lucy shook her head. “Nope. She simply never finished. One of her classmates was quoted, saying that Mica had pulled the stunt specifically to get out of school, that she’d wanted to drop out for years. As far as I know, she’s lived at home since.”

  “My,” I mused, eyeing the subject of our discourse, “such a treasure.”

  “As for the rest of the family, our files contain little of note—business stories on Burton Thrush, sports stories on Jason, and a few clips on Jason’s theatrical pursuits at school. There’s nothing, however, that even remotely suggests a motive for the boy’s death.”

  I thanked Lucy for the information, and she wandered into the crowd, ostensibly to get some food, but presumably to seek out Roxanne.

  Another late arrival was Frank Gelden, accompanied by his wife, Cynthia. Neil and I greeted them at the door. Frank apologized, “I’m usually the last one out of the theater, making sure everything is shut down. Did we miss much?”

  Before we could answer, Cynthia told us, “I really should have accepted your offer to drive me to the house. I hate being late—it’s sort of a fixation. I didn’t realize Frank had so many duties after the show.”

  “Such,” he lamented, “are the manifold responsibilities of the volunteer tech director,” but his tone wasn’t serious.

  Dispensing with chitchat, I told them, “The bar’s in the kitchen. Let’s get you something.” And I began leading them down the hall.

  “Actually,” said Cynthia, stopping, “I don’t care for anything just yet.” She turned to Neil. “But if you don’t mind, I’ve been dying to see that third-story great room you’ve told me so much about.”

  Neil nodded, smiling. He told me, “The stand-alone home office I’ve been designing for Cynthia was inspired by our own lofty attic room. If you’ll excuse us, I’d like to show it to her.”

  “Sure,” Frank and I told them. “Enjoy yourselves.”

  And they started up the wide stairway to the third floor of the house.

  Frank turned to me. “Cynthia loves working with Neil. He’s been great.”

  “Believe me, Neil appreciates the opportunity to work on something ‘tasty’—something other than another factory addition.” We laughed.

  “Uh,” Frank reminded me, “how about that drink?”

  I jerked my head toward the back of the hall and led him toward the kitchen. On the way, Roxanne caught my attention with a finger wag, so I told Frank to go ahead—I’d join him in a minute.

  Stepping over to Roxanne, I asked, “Having a good time?”

  She smiled, sipping from an icy glass of La Croix. “I am, actually.” Her voice was barely audible over the din in the hall.

  “We still need to ‘talk,’ don’t we?”

  “We do—you, Neil, and I. But, uh”—she covered an ear with her free hand—“this doesn’t seem to be the time or the place.”

  “Besides, Neil’s upstairs talking shop with Cynthia right now. I promise, after the party, the three of us can all sit down and get serious.”

  She grinned. “Not too serious. I just need a bit of counseling.”

  “What are friends for, counselor?”

  “Thanks, Mark.” She leaned and kissed my cheek. “Later.”

  “Later.” I returned her kiss, then took my leave.

  Arriving in the kitchen, I felt an instant sense of calm—the room was far quieter than the front of the house, and I looked forward to refilling the glass I’d long emptied. Several parents mingled with Frank at the room’s center island, set up as the bar. Joining them, I asked, “Finding everything you need, Frank?”

  He hoisted his glass, freshly filled—its sparkling amber color suggested Scotch and soda. “Everything I need.”

  “Frank?” said Barb, turning from the far side of the room, where she’d just popped a trayload of something into the oven. “Frank Gelden? Is that you?”

  He gave her a blank stare as she moved toward us. Then: “Good God, not Barbara Bilsten, class of seventy—”

  “Finish that sentence,” she interrupted, “and you’re dead meat.” We all laughed. “I must say, the years have been good to you. You look great.” Eyeing him up and down, she shook her head in astonishment. On Thursday morning, she’d described him as a geek in high school; she didn’t seem to find him at all geeky now, and her leer confirmed it. “You’re a different man, Frank.”

  “People change,” he explained with a shrug. Tentatively, he added, “It’s still Barb Bilsten?”

  With a nod, she verified that she had not married.

  “So, uh”—he whirled a hand in the air—“what have you been doing all these years? I haven’t seen you around.”

  She gave a quick history of her high-power career as an East Coast money manager, dismissing the whole experience with a flick of her hand. “I’m much better off back here in Dumont, at least for a while. And what about you, Frank? I hear you’re teaching a mushroom class or something.” She rolled her eyes. “What’s that all about?”

  With a mild laugh, he straightened out the details for her: molecular-biology professor at Woodlands, faculty adviser to Fungus Amongus at Thad’s school, technical director for the Dumont Players Guild.

  “Gee,” she said, “that’s a plateful—doesn’t leave time for much of a social life.”

  Was it my imagination, or did her tone now carry the ring of flirtation? Uh-oh.

  And right on cue, in walked Neil with Frank’s wife.

  “Neil, Cynthia!” said Frank. “You’ll never believe this—what a coincidence. Barb Bilsten and I went to high school together and haven’t seen each other in at least twenty years. Small world, huh?”

  Cynthia smiled, but looked confused. “You’re both from here, right?”

  Barb shook her hand. “That’s right, Cindy—my pleasure, by the way. See, Frank called it a coincidence tonight because I’ve been gone for twenty years. I hit sort of a midlife career crisis, if you know what I mean.”

  “Do I ever.” Cynthia winked. “Fortunately, mine hasn’t hit yet. Only a matter of time, though.” She and Barb laughed, bonding, doing the sisterhood thing.

  Neil interjected, “Come on now, Cynthia. You’re nowhere near hitting the skids—good thing too, since you’ll soon be writing checks for an extraordinarily handsome home office.”

  “Ohhh,” said Barb, enlightened, “you’re Neil’s client.” She pulled Cynthia aside, but only a few inches, confiding in a loud whisper meant to be overheard, “You really should be charging him, you know. He’s nuts about that project.”

  “So is Frank. Planning’s half the fun, and we’re having a ball.”

  Barb froze, looking stupefied—she’d connected the dots. “We?”

  Frank laughed, taking Cynthia’s hand. “Sorry, Barb. I guess we weren’t clear. Yes, man and wife—eight long years.”

  “Eight wonderful years,” Cynthia corrected him.

  He pecked his wife’s lips.

  Barb seemed at a loss to grasp their words. “You mean you’re…married?”

  Neil patted her back. “Sorry, Barb. Better luck next time.”

  We all laughed, and Barb self-effacingly joined in, but I got the impression she was genuinely flummoxed by this encounter—within a few short minutes, she’d both found and “lost” Frank. I, in turn, was intrigued by her reaction. When she had come to work at the house, she told me she’d sworn off men for a while. Was she now reconsidering that stance? Where
ver her head was at, I had to admit, Frank would be a prize.

  “Oh, Barb,” said Neil brightly, “there’s someone I want you to meet.” Was he trying to set her up already—some sort of consolation prize?

  Barb gave him a questioning stare.

  “Look who’s here.” Neil waved over to us a man who had just entered the kitchen for a drink. I didn’t know him, but his face was familiar. Neil said, “This is Whitney Greer, executive director of both the Players Guild and the Dumont Symphony.” Of course—his photo was in the Register from time to time, and his mug smiled from page two of every program book.

  Neil made the complete round of introductions. Frank already knew Whitney from his theater work, but neither Barb nor I had met him. Cynthia spoke as if she knew him, but I think she was faking it, feeling that she should know him.

  Barb’s mood instantly brightened as her focus shifted from Frank to her clarinet. “I’m so very pleased to meet you, Mr. Greer,” she told him, her manner uncharacteristically deferential. “If you have a few moments, there’s something I’d like to discuss with you.”

  Before Greer could respond, Neil said, “Actually, there’s something we need to discuss,” referring to the Geldens, me, and himself. I assumed he was steering us toward the coroner’s mushroom theory. “Maybe we could all freshen our drinks and try to find someplace quiet.”

  “My den,” I suggested.

  “Delightful,” agreed Cynthia.

  So while Barb cornered Whitney Greer to quiz him about the prospects of remedial clarinet lessons, I poured a glass of good chardonnay for Cynthia, topped off the rest of our drinks, and led our group out of the kitchen, into the noisy hall.

  Heading toward the front of the house, we encountered Thad with a clump of other kids that included Tommy Morales.

  “That really sucks,” said one of them, his tone commiserative.

  “Tell me,” said Tommy. “It’s like fate or whatever. I’d do anything to make theater ‘happen’ for me—I figure it’s the surest way out of here. Now this.”

  “What would it cost to fix?” asked Thad.

  “Way more than I’ve got,” said Tommy. “I planned on working this summer, but I wanted to be in the play too. I couldn’t do both, so I had to give up the job.”