Boy Toy

by Michael Craft

  “You love it,” Neil told her.

  She muttered, “Maybe I do.” From her tone, you’d have thought she’d been sentenced to death.

  The sounds from Barb’s clarinet began to take the shape of a melody, played quietly at first, hesitantly, with a misblown note here and there. Slowly, the sweet phrases began to connect in longer and longer lines, suggesting the structure of a longer work that was familiar but forgotten. In a word, Barb’s music was haunting. Though still in its fumbling, nascent stages of practice, it already displayed both its player’s control and its own primitive beauty.

  Neil and Roxanne’s conversation had taken a new turn. Roxanne answered him, “I don’t think so. Why?”

  “Well, as long as Carl doesn’t have to be in Springfield next weekend, why don’t you bring him up here? Use Thad’s play as an excuse—Carl should see it. Not that Carl needs an excuse to visit, but maybe, if the mood struck, we could all have a heart-to-heart about your plans.”

  “Group therapy?”

  Neil laughed. “Something like that.”

  She nodded. “Let me think about it.”

  The phone rang—a startling sound on that still Sunday morning, an odd time, really, for anyone to call. Perhaps it was Pierce or Lucy, with news. Or even Carl, checking on Roxanne. I didn’t want the noise to disturb Barb’s practice or Thad’s sleep, so I quickly pushed my chair from the table, rose, stepped to the counter, and picked up the receiver before the second ring. “Hello?”

  There was a pause. Sensing trouble, I asked, “Yes…?”

  “Let me talk to boy toy,” said a girlish falsetto, a vocal disguise at once ridiculous and effective. The voice added, “Killer boy toy!” Then, with an eerie laugh, the line went dead.

  Gingerly, I replaced the receiver, as if handling something foul.

  It was apparent from their cautious expressions that both Neil and Roxanne, watching from the table, could guess the gist of what had happened. Neil muttered, “Uh-oh.”

  I repeated what had been said, mimicking the voice, then told them, “It could have been anyone—man, woman, or child—anyone who was at the theater last Wednesday night. Or anyone who heard about it.”

  Rox observed, “Sounds typically adolescent to me.”

  Neil said, “I don’t suppose the caller ID solves this little mystery.”

  Shaking my head, I tapped the gizmo. “Pay phone.”

  “Naturally.”

  The fun and games had now truly begun.

  By unspoken consensus, it would be a quiet day. The party—to say nothing of Jason’s death and now an ugly, anonymous phone call—had sapped all of us. Thad had a twelve-thirty call for his two-o’clock matinee, so the shank of his Sunday was shot, and he slept all morning. Roxanne had no plans for that afternoon, as she would not be driving back to Chicago till the next morning, so she offered (to our amazement) to help Barb in the preparation of an early supper for the household. Both Neil and I planned to spend a bit of time at our offices that afternoon; he wanted to put some finishing touches on Cynthia Dunne-Gelden’s building plans, while I just wanted to keep an eye on things at the paper.

  I offered to drive Thad to the theater on my way downtown to the Register, so around twelve-twenty, we got into the car together and pulled away from the house. He didn’t exhibit the high energy that typically animated his speech and manner prior to a performance. In fact, he was quiet.

  “Tired?”

  “Yeah. Guess so.” He didn’t even look at me.

  “Expecting a good crowd today?”

  He turned. “Sundays can really be dead, but I bet we’ll sell out again.”

  With a soft laugh, I told him, “I’m sure you’ll give it your best, regardless.”

  He paused before asking, “Regardless of what?”

  “The size of the audience, that’s all.” He must have thought that I had meant “regardless of their hostility,” and I probably had.

  “Mark?” he said, shaking his head. “I really sucked last night.”

  “No, Thad.” I reached over and patted his arm. “It wasn’t that bad. There was some strange chemistry in the audience—it wasn’t your fault. You’ve always told me that audiences are unpredictable, and, hey, last night you proved it. Or they did. In spite of everything, though, you were the consummate pro, a real hero.”

  “Tommy was the hero,” he reminded me, managing a laugh.

  Unable to argue his point, I simply reassured him, “A flash in the pan.”

  We rode onward in silence, and I knew—on the basis of my own instincts, already confirmed by Kwynn Wyman—that the suspicions of Thad’s peers had really started to eat at him. Before Saturday’s performance, Thad had laughed off the whispered accusations that he’d made good on his threat to kill Jason, but now he showed traces of the sullen personality that had been so troubling to Neil and me when Thad’s life had unexpectedly merged with ours. We’d worked hard to prop up his esteem and ignite productive interests, but all that progress was suddenly threatened—our “happy kid” was at the brink of a crisis. What’s more, I feared that these preoccupations could take a toll on his performance in the play that day, now only ninety minutes away. Would his command of his role continue to deteriorate, as it had last night?

  “Thad,” I said tentatively, “I hope you won’t let these…circumstances get to you. It’ll all blow over.”

  He turned to me with a quizzical look. “ ‘Circumstances’?”

  Forced to be explicit, I told him, “Jason’s death. It seems a few of your friends have the crazy idea that Jason died as the result of your threat on Wednesday night.”

  “Oh”—he laughed, trying to put me at ease—“they’re just goofing off.”

  “Of course they are. Sheriff Pierce will have this cleared up right away.”

  “Sure, I know that.” He waved off my concern, putting up a good act.

  Pulling into the parking lot behind the theater, I routinely told him, “Break a leg today. Show ’em who’s boss.”

  “Thanks, Mark.”

  “Need a ride home after the show?”

  “Nah. Some of us might go out—not sure. I’ll get home okay.”

  I turned the car around near the stage door and stopped. Thad got out of the car and greeted a pack of kids who were waiting outside, less than eager to spend the sunny afternoon in a dark theater. Thad received a smattering of heys and thanks—the party was deemed a success, I gathered. Kwynn caught my eye and flashed me a feeble, uncertain smile, then rushed over and gave Thad a friendly kiss on his cheek. Others moved away from him, though, regrouping on the far side of the stage door. Was it my imagination, or was the troupe dividing into factions of Thad’s supporters and detractors?

  Mulling this, I noticed another car pull into the lot, parking in a nearby space. With the sun glaring on its windows, I couldn’t see who was inside. But then the doors opened and out stepped Frank Gelden and his passenger, Tommy Morales, whose car had broken down. Frank had already spotted me, and he hailed me with a wave and a smile. As I got out of my car, I watched Tommy make his way through the kids in the parking lot. I wondered if he had clearly allied himself with either of the factions, but apparently not—he went directly into the theater and disappeared in the backstage darkness.

  Frank and I met midway between our cars, shaking hands. He wore shorts, looking good. The afternoon heat was sweltering; the asphalt of the parking lot felt gummy under my shoes. I told him, “Hope they’ve managed to cool down that old theater for the afternoon.”

  “I’m not counting on it.” He laughed, fanning the cuffed ends of his baggy shorts. “I’m just anxious to get the show behind us today and take a few days off.”

  “I thought you theater folk loved this grind.”

  With a sheepish shrug, he admitted, “For me, the fun is in the rehearsal, the preparation, the buildup. Once the show is running—well, that’s just work.”

  “And then, when it’s over, you miss it.”

&
nbsp; “Right! There’s nothing rational about it, Mark. Oh, by the way”—he clapped a huge, strong hand on my shoulder—“great party last night. Cynthia and I had a blast. And we’re looking forward to tomorrow evening with you and Neil.”

  “So are we, and really, we can’t thank you enough for taking an interest in Thad’s predicament—the mushroom angle.”

  Widening his stance, he removed his hand from my shoulder and parked both palms on his hips. Nodding, he told me, “I’ve started my research already. I hit the books as soon as we got home last night and stayed up reading way too late.” He laughed, stifling a yawn, which seemed too well-timed to be genuine.

  I smiled. “Did you learn anything?”

  “Nothing conclusive yet.” His face wrinkled. “But…well, let’s just say that the coroner’s mushroom theory may not be so half-baked after all.”

  Instinctively, I frowned.

  “Sorry, Mark. I know that’s not what you were hoping for. Still, I’ve barely scratched the surface of all this, and I have no reason to think that it points to Thad. I intend to sort through everything at home tonight after the play. Tomorrow, I’ll do some Internet research and, if necessary, hit the library. I promise, though, I’ll have more complete information by tomorrow at eight.”

  “That means, I presume, cocktails at eight?”

  He nodded. “Be there.”

  He clapped my shoulder (his hands, I again noticed, were enormous, muscular, and beautifully veined), then he trotted across the parking lot to the stage door, where he gathered the straggling cast members and shooed them inside.

  With a thud, the big metal door closed behind them.

  A few minutes later, I arrived at the Register’s offices, parked in my space near the rear lobby entrance, and let myself in with my key—on Sundays, no one was on buzzer duty. Crossing the lobby and climbing the stairs to the newsroom, I felt comfortably at home and in command.

  Not that I have ever struggled with issues of “control,” but there was an undeniable satisfaction in standing at the helm of this little ship of journalism, knowing not only that I owned it, but that I was up to the task. Indeed, some had scoffed that I was overqualified when I’d hatched my scheme to leave Chicago for Dumont. Disproving their contention, I quickly discovered that my skills as a reporter had simply not prepared me for my duties as a publisher. There was plenty to learn. And in time, I learned it.

  What I felt, then, as I entered the newsroom, was something of a paternal satisfaction—I was guide, steward, and provider, not just a boss. Even the air here seemed alive, humming with mild activity, carrying a whiff of ink (at least in my imagination, as the actual printing plant was housed in separate quarters, nearby but not adjacent to the offices).

  I greeted the weekend crew as I strolled between their desks toward my office along the opposite wall. The editor working the city slot looked up from his computer terminal. “Oh—hi, Mark.” He stopped typing. “Did Lucille find you? Something from the coroner.”

  “Thanks,” I told him, already halfway to her office.

  Lucille Haring saw me coming and met me in the aisle. “I think you’ll like this,” she said, waving a fax. “Your office?”

  “Sure.” I led her through my outer office, opened the inner door, then stepped inside. Sitting behind my desk, I asked, “What’s up?”

  She sat opposite me, sliding the paper onto the desk. As I skimmed over it, she read from her own notes, telling me, “Coroner Formhals has issued a follow-up report, saying that analysis of Jason’s stomach contents did not reveal the presence of ingested mushrooms. His final report, however, is still pending the results of toxicology tests.”

  She’d summarized well. I slid the paper away and sat back in my chair, thinking. I smiled. “No mushrooms in Jason’s stomach—that seems to debunk the mushroom theory, therefore casting suspicion away from Thad, right?”

  “That’s the way I read it,” she agreed, scratching the coppery stubble behind her ear. She frowned.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “If the mushroom theory is out the window, why is the final report still pending?”

  I shrugged. “Toxicology. That’s routine with suspicious deaths, right?”

  She nodded, but looked puzzled.

  I shook my head, as if to clear my thinking. “I admit, I’m confused by the biology involved here. If there were no mushrooms in Jason’s stomach, what could the toxicology tests reveal? Is Formhals now looking for something else?”

  She suggested the obvious: “Ask him.”

  “No”—I smiled—“you ask him. Phone him, set up an interview, and run him through the whole mumbo jumbo. After yesterday’s conference call, my underlying concern for Thad would be transparent if I questioned Formhals myself.”

  “No problem,” said Lucy, jotting a few notes, “I’ll get right on it and try to reach him. Chances are, though, I won’t be able to see him till tomorrow.”

  “Keep me posted.”

  She nodded, gathered her notes, and left.

  I had started keeping my own file on the case, which I now retrieved from the credenza behind my desk. Opening it, I added the copy of the coroner’s follow-up report, and uncapping my Montblanc, I scratched a few marginal notes, mostly questions. Clearly, this latest development would be of interest to Frank Gelden in his exploration of the mushroom angle, but he was now busy at the theater—I would phone him that evening with the update.

  Meanwhile, I decided to phone Sheriff Pierce. Saturday night had been a late one for all of us, and he hadn’t made his routine stop at the house this morning after his workout. He’d probably slept late for a change, possibly skipping the workout as well. I wasn’t sure whether to try reaching him at home or at his office, but I opted for the office, and he picked up the phone on the first ring.

  “Hi, Doug. Slow start today?”

  “Thanks to you. Hey, Mark—great party.”

  When we’d exhausted a few more pleasantries, I asked, “Have you seen the coroner’s latest report?”

  “Yeah. Right here in front of me. Still inconclusive.”

  “I was hoping that Formhals might have some quick answers that would wrap this thing up, but it’s not playing out that way. Where do we—” I stopped myself, rephrasing, “Where do you go from here?”

  “I”—he emphasized the pronoun—“thought I’d go over to the theater this afternoon for a backstage visit. After the show, I want to talk to the cast, run them through some basic questions.”

  Hesitating, I asked, “This will include Thad, I suppose?”

  Pierce’s tone was matter-of-fact. “Well, sure. Like it or not, Mark, Thad is a part of this. I’m not saying I think he was involved, but objectively speaking, it’s plausible. The sooner I get some routine questioning out of the way, the better for everyone.”

  This was not what I wanted to hear. “I think I should be there, Doug.”

  “No, Mark. You’d only heighten the tension, and I want to keep it low-key. Remember, there’s no evidence of foul play yet, so there’s no official police investigation yet. We’re still at the ‘inquiry’ stage. I simply intend to gather some background on Jason and his relationships with the rest of the theater crowd. As for Thad, if I can pin down his whereabouts during the days and hours leading up to Jason’s death, all the better.”

  Grimly, I observed, “That sounds a lot like an alibi.”

  “Call it what you will. If it puts Thad in the clear, then this whole mess is finished—at least from his perspective—leaving me to tangle with the DA, who’s taken an inordinate interest in this case.”

  Pierce was right, of course. He was doing his job, and he knew how to do it. As for me, I was acting not only like an inquisitive journalist, but like a fretting parent as well—the last thing he needed.

  “Hey,” he said, his tone more personal and placating, “I’m scheduled for a follow-up visit to the Thrush residence tomorrow morning. With the death a few days old, everyone might have a f
resh perspective.”

  “I could use a fresh perspective myself.”

  “Then why don’t you ride out there with me after breakfast?”

  I paused. “Thanks, Doug.”

  “For what?”

  “Your friendship. And your kringle.”

  “Raspberry tomorrow?”

  “Perfect.”

  Monday, August 6

  MONDAY MORNING, PIERCE DELIVERED the promised pastry after his early workout, and life felt back on schedule at the house on Prairie Street. Neil was ready for the office, Barb was ready to tackle laundry, and Roxanne was ready to drive south, intending to return on Friday or Saturday with Carl. Thad was still asleep, exhausted by the first three performances of Teen Play.

  Sunday evening, he hadn’t said much about the matinee or about Pierce’s backstage visit with the cast. What’s more, Thad had arrived home looking like hell, with a scrape on his forehead and cuts on a hand and an elbow, which he dismissed as the result of a vigorous but clumsy rendition of the fight scene concluding act one. None of us pressed him to elaborate, though I was itching for details.

  Let him sleep, I thought the next morning. Slumber protected him from the predicament that had mounted over the weekend, and while he slept, I could take action to help him. Pierce and I were returning to the scene of Jason’s death. With clear heads—and our combined investigative skills—perhaps we could begin to make sense of the perplexing case.

  “Care to drive?” asked Pierce as we left the house by the kitchen door. Since the Thrush residence was located some distance from downtown, there was no point in taking both cars. The sheriff’s souped-up, county-issued sedan was fast but spartan, so the decision to ride in style was reached with minimal discussion.

  “Sure.”

  A break in the weather was promised for later that day, but the morning was sultry. Humidity hung over the town like a bright fog. Traveling along the highway toward the city line, we spoke over the drone of my car’s air conditioner.

  “Thad hasn’t said anything,” I told Pierce, “and neither have you. What happened at the theater yesterday? Any developments?”