My eyes drifted to the window, where I noticed an array of mushrooms that had been collected, jarred, and labeled for study, lined up on the sill. I hadn’t seen them at first, as they were obscured by the foliage of a large potted schefflera. Taking a closer look, I had to chuckle. To my untutored eye, all the mushrooms looked essentially alike—earthy, gray, and rubbery—with the exception of one variety that was downright pretty, with reddish caps, spotted white.
“Here we are,” said Neil, picking up three volumes of Central Times. Checking the contents page of the most recent edition, he mumbled, “Clubs,” and flipped to the back of the book.
I stepped close as he turned the pages. Band Boosters. Chess Chums. Debate. Friends of French. Aha—Fungus Amongus.
“Good grief,” said Neil, gawking at the large photo. “There must be thirty members—I had no idea.” Front and center was Frank Gelden, faculty adviser, wearing a handsome smile and a bush jacket. Neil tapped his finger on a face in the front row. “There’s Thad.”
Otherwise, the members of the mushroom club were just faces in a crowd. I’d need to read the long caption to see if there were any familiar names. As I began to do this, though, from the corner of my eye, a face behind Thad—directly behind him—caught my attention.
Neil saw it too. “Hey, it’s Tommy Morales.”
“I’ll be damned—the understudy who got lucky. Chances are, Tommy knows as much about mushrooms as Thad does.”
“He’s a year younger,” Neil reminded me.
“But Thad’s been in the club for only a year.”
“True…”
“Read through the caption, Neil. You know Thad’s theater crowd better than I do. Are there any other members of Fungus Amongus who are also involved with the Players Guild?”
He took a moment to peruse the long lines of small type.
Looking up, he told me, “Not a one.”
Driving out of town on county highway B, we agreed that it was a perfect evening for our informal soirée at the Geldens’. It was a few minutes before eight; night would not fall for another hour, but the sun had swung low in a clear sky that bled from indigo to copper.
“Their driveway is just ahead,” Neil told me. “There, on the left.” A generic rural mailbox marked the entrance, giving no clue to the lavish grounds that lay within, well hidden from the road. “This really is an estate,” I said, recalling the comment I’d made earlier that day in Neil’s office. “The money in the family must be Cynthia’s. Biology professors at extension campuses aren’t that well paid.”
“Definitely. She’s the big breadwinner. The building project is entirely hers—and she writes all the checks.”
As the house came into view around a turn of the drive, I told Neil, “Glad we brought some decent wine.” Having seen the plans earlier, I knew the house would be big, and I’d gotten a sense of its style from the perspective drawing of the new pavilion. Still, I was unprepared for its overall beauty and the impact of its setting. This was not the sort of nouveau-riche residence so often derided by Neil as a “big dumb house.” Though indeed large, it was, in a word, charming. Neil had said it reminded him of a lodge in New Hampshire, and the description was apt—from its sloping fieldstone chimneys to its timbered bay windows. The whole house lay nestled (there is no other word but nestled to describe the spatial relationship) in a verdant clearing framed by oaks, punctuated by pines. The driveway swung into a large, brick-paved parking court, fenced by a low wall of mature, waxy boxwood, pruned with precision. I had never found much appeal to the notion of “country living,” but if I were ever tempted to try roughing it, it would be here.
I braked the car, cut the engine, and grabbed the two bottles of wine; Neil grabbed his roll of architectural drawings. As we got out of the car, warm evening air carried the heavy scent of pine, which wafted with birdsong on a mild breeze. Loose pea gravel from between the bricks grated under our shoes as we approached the front door of the house.
Before we reached the porch, the door swung open and both Frank and Cynthia stepped out to greet us. “Welcome,” said one of them. “Glad you could come,” said the other.
“Beautiful evening,” said one of us. “Thanks for having us,” said the other.
Cynthia tapped her watch. “Right on the button—we like that.”
As we met on the porch, there was an awkward moment of hesitation, then the four of us dove in for a round of hugs. Neil and Cynthia kissed, which didn’t surprise me, as I’d seen them do it on Saturday night, but till then I’d never known Frank to offer anything more affectionate than a prolonged handshake. Tonight, it was all hugs and back pats, and I enjoyed without guilt the brief feeling of his arms around me, his chin on my shoulder.
“Hey,” he said, recognizing the label of the bottles I carried, “Pavillon Rouge. One of our favorites—a superb second pressing of the Château Margaux.”
If he meant to impress me, he did. I was doubly glad we’d brought a good year, as he doubtless knew the hierarchy of vintages. “We guessed you’d prefer red,” I told him. “Don’t feel obligated to serve it though.” As I handed him the bottles, I added, “A gift for your cellar.”
Cynthia chimed, “Of course we’ll serve it. A perfect choice—we haven’t uncorked anything yet.” She turned to Neil. “And I see what you’ve brought. I’m dying to get a look at those plans.”
Frank took charge. “Cocktails first,” he commanded, then led us all inside.
I was prepared to be wowed, and the interior of the house did not disappoint. In keeping with the home’s “country” style, the furnishings and decorating were tastefully laid-back and comfortable, but not the least bit cutesy or primitive—no butter churns, rifle racks, cow-themed ceramics, straw wreaths, or other Martha Stewart touches. Rather, an easy palette of neutrals dominated the living room, with plump, overstuffed furniture upholstered in soft stripes and solids. Handsome, mismatched rugs lay scattered about the wide-plank floor, while the lofty, beamed ceiling disappeared beneath a crisp whitewash, lending an overall impression of unfussy elegance. A row of French doors along the back wall of the living room looked out upon an expansive green space; if I recalled correctly, this would be the site of Neil’s pavilion.
Frank played bartender. His Scotch and Cynthia’s chardonnay were already poured. “Correct me if I’m wrong,” he told Neil and me, “but you guys drink vodka, right?” Without flinching, he added, “Straight?”
Neil told him, “Vodka, yes; straight, yes; but plenty of ice. Do you happen to have an orange?”
“Not usually,” Frank answered, grinning, “but I noticed the color of your twist on Saturday.” And he produced, as if by magic, an orange from behind his back.
We laughed. I told him, “You’re an exceptionally accommodating host.”
Cynthia agreed, “He does know how to entertain. This doll even cooks!”
He said, “Look who’s talking. Cynthia herself is a marvelous cook.”
Under her breath, she rejoined, “Guess who taught me.”
Within a minute, the zesting of the orange had been performed and we all had a drink in our hands. Cynthia lifted her glass: “To a most promising friendship.”
We all seconded, then drank.
“Actually,” said Frank, “Cynthia and I really do look forward to knowing you better. I just hope our, uh…‘marital circumstances’ aren’t too square for you.”
“Are you kidding?” quipped Neil. “Mark and I could use a few more straight friends—it broadens our horizons.” And we indulged in one of the many hearty rounds of laughter that would mark the evening.
Not long after the first drinks were finished, Cynthia reminded Neil, “I’m dying to see those plans.”
I told her, “I got a preview before lunch today. Neil’s never done better work. He’s lucky to have a such a client.”
“I’m the lucky one,” she insisted.
Neil told her, “I don’t know if I can stand all this flattery. Mark’s right t
hough—I think you’re going to love the plans.” He turned to me. “I need to discuss a few budget details with Cynthia, and since we’re still reasonably sober, this might be the best time. Maybe Frank could show you the house.”
That sounded just dandy, I thought, but Frank’s look turned serious as he said to me, “Let’s save the grand tour for later. As long as Cynthia and her architect are tied up talking business, why don’t you and your mycologist talk mushrooms?”
“Sure. Good idea.” I’d nearly forgotten the point of the evening’s mission. “You’ve been cracking the books then?”
He nodded. “And I have some findings to report. Another drink first?”
“Yeah, great.” My arm needed no twisting—the shift of topic left me feeling that I might really need the security of alcohol at hand.
Frank refilled everyone’s glass, then Neil and Cynthia hunkered at the coffee table, where Neil began unfurling his drawings. Before the first squeal had escaped Cynthia’s lips, Frank suggested, “Let’s go to my study.”
Following him through a hall, I caught glimpses of other rooms, concluding that the entire house was similarly decorated, consistently tasteful—I could well understand how Neil and Cynthia had clicked. Frank turned into a room, and I stepped inside after him.
His study was truly a working office, not just a showy den of wood and leather. An entire wall housed rows of books—well-worn textbooks and reference works, not gilt-spined editions of unread masterpieces. His desk was more utilitarian than pretentious, covered with notes, rosters, syllabi, computer printouts, and open books. A battered toy microscope sat displayed on a shelf, perhaps the boyhood Christmas gift that had inspired the course of his career. On the floor, a bulging briefcase showed years of rugged service in lugging heavy classwork, not genteel contracts. Rumpled cushions on a sofa suggested that he liked to lie and read there. “Get comfortable, Mark.”
As I sat on the sofa, the room’s only seating other than Frank’s desk chair, he retrieved some notes and a book from a stack on his desk, then joined me on the sofa, sitting next to me. I sipped my drink, set it on an end table, and told him, “I can’t thank you enough for digging into this, for getting involved.”
“Hey, my pleasure.” He sipped his Scotch and set it aside. “I share your concern for Thad, and besides, the coroner’s theory presented an intriguing intellectual challenge. Basically, I had to reverse his thought processes as a test of whether I could reach the same conclusion. He began the process by asking himself, ‘What caused Jason’s death?’ I began by asking, ‘Could mushroom poisoning have been responsible for Jason’s death?’ Tricky stuff.”
Clearly, he enjoyed the challenge and the process, while I simply wanted an answer. And the answer I wanted was, no, mushroom poisoning was not the likely cause of Jason’s death. However, Frank had told me in the theater parking lot on Sunday afternoon that the mushroom theory no longer struck him as half-baked. With a wary smile, I asked, “Reach any conclusions?”
He nodded, tapping his notes. “I was skeptical on Saturday and unsure on Sunday, but now I think that, yes, Formhals may be on the right track. It’s arguable, certainly conceivable, that Jason Thrush was poisoned by fly agaric.” He smiled, proud of his research, no doubt.
“Sorry?” I must have seemed distracted. Not only had he given me the answer I did not want, but he was touching upon particulars beyond my realm of knowledge.
“Fly agaric,” he repeated. “Its scientific name is Amanita muscaria; its common name derives from its use to kill flies. The fly agaric is not so highly toxic as its notorious cousins, the death cap and the destroying angel, but under certain circumstances, it can indeed prove deadly.”
“And it grows around here?”
“You bet. During summer, you’ll find them along the roadside or at the edge of fields or in pine groves. In mixed woods, they often grow in arcs, sometimes called fairy rings.”
“Cute.” I lifted my glass and drank.
“Actually, they are cute—the fly agaric, I mean.” He opened the book he’d brought from the desk and showed me a notched page. “This field guide has some great pictures. See? It looks like something out of a storybook.”
Glancing at the photo, I nearly choked on my vodka. Setting the glass aside, I leaned forward for a closer look.
Frank was accurate in his description of the fly agaric. The pretty mushroom in the photograph belonged in a children’s animated fairy tale. It had a white stalk with a red, dome-shaped cap, spotted white. It was easy to imagine the thing popping out of the ground and doing a little dance. It was also, unmistakably, one of the mushroom species I’d noticed only an hour earlier, stored in a jar—seemingly hidden behind the fronds of a schefflera—in Thad’s bedroom.
Trying to focus my thoughts, I asked, “But it’s not always deadly?”
He put down the book. “Only rarely. The fly agaric’s toxins usually cause only nausea or delirium, which passes within twenty-four hours. But if the victim was already weakened by an illness, the effects could be much more serious. Significantly, its symptoms include copious mucus and closing of the throat. Jason had been ill with a cold, and he exhibited those very symptoms.”
I sat back, drawing the apparent conclusion: “That’s it, then.” I didn’t want to even consider the implications of Thad’s stash.
Frank shook his head. “This theory is far from airtight, Mark. For starters, fly agaric poisons quickly, within a half hour to three hours after ingestion. So the mushrooms should have been found in Jason’s stomach, unless he vomited.”
“No,” I recalled with a measure of relief, “Dr. Formhals specifically told us—at lunch—that Jason had not vomited.”
“Then we have a dilemma. As an added complication, the mushrooms would have to be consumed in large quantities in order to prove fatal. We don’t know if Jason even liked mushrooms. If not, how could he be tricked into eating a sufficient quantity to kill him?” Frank concluded, “The theory presents an interesting possibility, but it has too many holes.”
“Well, at least that’s heartening. While I’m eager, for Thad’s sake, to get this wrapped up, I’d prefer that the answer did not involve mushrooms.”
Frank laughed. “I hear you. Virtually anyone in Thad’s mushroom club would have sufficient knowledge to harvest the fly agaric and put it to use. If someone did, that’s probably the end of Fungus Amongus.”
Mention of the club brought someone to mind, someone I’d been growing curious about. I asked Frank, “What do you know about Tommy Morales?”
“Tommy? Why do you ask?”
I shifted on the sofa to face Frank better. “Neil and I were looking at a yearbook photo, and as far as we could tell, the only one in the mushroom group also involved with the Players Guild is Tommy—and Thad, of course. Am I right?”
He thought for a moment, as if comparing the two rosters in his head. He nodded. “Right, I can’t think of anyone else.”
“I’m not jumping to conclusions, mind you. Hell, we don’t even know if Jason was murdered, and if he was, we don’t know that mushrooms had anything to do with it. Still, Tommy knows mushrooms, and Tommy understudied Jason.”
“Okay, I see what you’re driving at. But Tommy’s a sweet kid. I can’t imagine either Tommy or Thad having any complicity in Jason’s death.”
I backtracked. “You said that Tommy comes from a big family, right?”
“Yeah. Five kids, I think. Their means are, well…modest, but there’s been no lack of love or nurturing. He’s a quiet, hard worker. Ambitious.”
“He was quiet Wednesday night,” I recalled, “when I first saw him at rehearsal, but by Saturday night, it seemed he’d really blossomed.”
Considering this, Frank reached for his Scotch and soda, then sipped. “Let’s just say that Tommy got a much needed emotional boost from stepping into the role of Dawson. I’ve started driving him to and from the theater, and we’ve had a chance to talk a bit. Yes, Dawson truly is the role he wan
ted all along, and he’s glad to have it. At the same time, he seems to fully appreciate the tragedy of Jason’s death. I don’t think there’s a connection, Mark.”
I recalled a comment made by Tommy at the cast party—he said he’d do anything to make theater “happen” for him. I asked Frank, “Were Tommy and Jason friendly?”
Without hesitation, Frank answered flatly, “No. They went to different schools, so they didn’t even know each other till this summer. Even then, the two never quite meshed—‘different sides of the track,’ that kind of thing.”
“Did Tommy resent Jason’s affluence?”
“Maybe. For whatever it’s worth, he’s never seemed to resent Thad’s affluence; they’ve always gotten along well, both at school and at the theater.”
“I may be prejudiced, Frank, but Jason invited resentment. Thad, as far as I know, has never flaunted his own privileged background.”
Cynthia popped into the room. “Have Holmes and Watson solved the riddle yet?” She made a beeline for Frank and kissed the top of his head.
Standing, he told her, “Not yet, I’m afraid. I’ve brought Mark up to speed on fly agaric, but the theory seems to raise as many questions as it answers.”
“Fly what?” asked Neil, entering the room.
Frank ran him through our earlier discussion and showed him the photo in the book. Neil regarded it with interest but with no apparent alarm—he’d paid no attention to Thad’s mushroom collection when we’d visited his bedroom. Frank summed up, “If Jason died of poisoning from Amanita, he must have been a glutton for mushrooms, or someone slipped him quite a recipe.”
“Oh!” said Cynthia, sipping her wine. “Speaking of recipes, I found a fabulous first course to serve tonight. It’s a tad experimental—hope you don’t mind, my guinea pigs.”
I quipped, “You’re serving guinea pigs?”
Boy Toy Page 18
