He placed his hands around my waist, and we stood together, looking at each other for several long, silent seconds.
Then the soft, breathy notes of a clarinet drifted through the house and met our ears. Instinctively, we turned toward the hall, listening. After a few practice scales, the sounds took on the structure of music. I recognized a phrase or two from the melody I’d heard Barb practicing on Sunday morning, now sounding much more polished.
“She’s been busy,” said Neil.
Nodding, I told him, “She’s really good—surprisingly good.”
The piece had odd rhythms, an eerie quietude, and frequent little trills suggestive of birds. It seemed plaintive and vulnerable, yet agitated by an underlying turbulence.
Neil cocked his head. “It’s not quite ‘pretty,’ but it certainly has a beauty about it. Do you know the piece?”
“It’s familiar, but I can’t place it. I know this much, though: it’s modern, and it’s extremely difficult. Barb may be a bit rusty, but she’s a highly skilled player.” Her clarinet drifted through measure after mea- sure of the piece, exploring a sensitive range of dynamics while evoking unseen colors and teetering, uncertain emotions.
Then, with a sad, quiet trill, it ended.
A small bird, I felt, had died.
Glee Savage grinned. “Why do I get the feeling that your interest in Denny Diggins runs deeper than theater?”
We were seated in the conference area outside my office at the Register. It was sometime after nine that morning. I answered her question with one of my own: “Has anyone ever told you that you’re as astute as you are stylish?”
“Often.” She smiled through those big red lips.
“Here’s the deal—”
Lifting a finger, she asked me to wait as she retrieved a steno pad from her huge, flat purse (this one was adorned with a bouncy calypso-themed pattern of dancing lemons, limes, and oranges—a palette that was repeated in the eye-searing solids of her jacket, blouse, and skirt). Clicking her pen, she was ready for shorthand. With a nod, she told me, “Shoot, boss.”
I brought her up to speed. “As you can probably guess, this relates to the death of Jason Thrush. His sister, Mica, told Sheriff Pierce and me that Jason was gay, and she implied that he was having an affair with Denny Diggins, also claiming that they were recently on the outs. Last Friday, when Jason failed to appear at the theater on time for his six-thirty call, Denny was out in the parking lot wringing his hands, telling everyone, myself included, that he’d been trying desperately all afternoon to reach Jason by phone. Now we have phone records for the Thrush residence, and there were no calls from Denny that day.”
Glee looked up from her note-taking. “My, that is intriguing.”
“Uh-huh. So we need to quiz him on several matters—”
“All in the context of publicity for his play.” Glee’s tone had turned coy.
“Precisely.” I smiled. “If anyone can pull this off, you can, Glee. You’re a pro to your bones.” She was. Having been on the Register’s staff for thirty years, she knew everyone in town—which fostered another idea. “How well do you know Denny Diggins?”
She thought. “Not very. And that’s sort of odd, isn’t it? For decades, we’ve both worked for the local media. Guess we don’t mingle in the same circles.”
“And you’re both single. Is he gay?”
“I always thought so. I’ve never known him to date women.”
“We need to try to pin that down. Also, let’s see if he changes his story about the phone calls. And another important detail: How extensive is his knowledge of mushrooms?”
Glee removed her reading glasses, eyeing me skeptically.
I explained, “The coroner is working on a theory.”
She nodded—say no more.
“Do you think you can devise enough ‘intelligent’ questions to keep him off base for a while?”
“Of course.” She looked playfully affronted. “As long as I’m bothering, I do plan to get a decent feature out of this—regardless of whether you end up with a page-one headline.”
Dear, driven Glee. Ever so practical. I suggested, “You may want to conduct the interview right here. There’s more room, and—”
“—and that puts you in a convenient position to ‘drop in’ at the appropriate moment.”
Yes, we’d done this before.
“I’ll phone him right away,” she continued, “and set up the interview.”
I was about to get up and return to my desk when Lucille Haring stepped in from the newsroom. “Got a minute, Mark?”
“Sure, Lucy. Glee and I just finished. Join us.”
Carrying a folder, she walked into the room and sat in the chair next to Glee’s. Lucy wore one of her typical olive-drab pantsuits, a jarring contrast to Glee’s over-the-edge ensemble. Patting the folder, she said dryly, “The plot thickens.”
Both Glee and I perked up. I asked, “What have you got?”
“Another possible motive.”
I uncapped my Montblanc, ready for notes; Glee’s pen was already poised.
Lucy elaborated, “We already know that Burton Thrush, the victim’s father, carried a sizable life-insurance policy on his son. Turns out, he’s not the only one. Mica Thrush, the kid’s snotty sister, had also insured Jason’s life.”
I nodded. “Interesting…”
“Very interesting. Jason’s death was worth a cool two million to the charming Miss Thrush.”
Glee tisked. “Why, that little…” Glee’s oaths didn’t get much stronger.
“So,” I said, “two million for Mica and ten for Daddy. It seems we have more motives than we know what to do with.”
“Right. We’ve got motives”—Lucy grinned—“but the Thrushes have zilch, so far. Both Mica and Burton have retained lawyers to help rush their claims, but the insurance companies are balking over cause-of-death issues.”
“And I don’t blame them.” Glee sounded genuinely steamed at the whole situation. “You’d think the boy’s family, of all people, would have the decency—or at least the curiosity—to let the truth be discovered before clamoring for the loot.” She crossed her arms.
Lucy countered, “It doesn’t seem that decency—or patience—is a Thrush-family trait. Not only have both Burton and Mica tried, through their lawyers, to rush their insurance claims, but I have reason to believe that Burton is now attempting to influence a quick, favorable ruling from Dr. Formhals by exerting pressure through Harley Kaiser.”
Something had told me that name was about to pop up. “What’s our hot-dog DA got to do with this?”
“I checked the records. Kaiser has been the recipient of generous campaign contributions from Thrush. According to Kaiser’s secretary, Thrush paid a closed-door visit to Kaiser’s courthouse office late yesterday. She’s sure it was Thrush—the old guy looked like he needed oxygen.”
“Yes,” I mused, “that would be he.”
Glee stood, smoothing wrinkles from the front of her skirt. “It really is appalling how the scent of cash seems to bring out the very worst in people.”
Lucy added, “Especially people who need the cash—like Burton Thrush.”
Glee moved toward the door. “It’s unthinkable, though. His own son.”
I reminded them both, “We don’t know for certain that Jason was killed, and if he was, the circumstances point to any number of suspects.”
“One of whom,” said Glee, “will make a fascinating subject for a features interview.” Then she turned and left my office to phone Denny Diggins.
Opening her folder, Lucy told me, “That field of suspects seems to have grown by one. You asked me for some background on Nancy Sanderson.”
I turned to a fresh page of my notebook. “And?”
“And I’ve pieced together a bit of history that does indeed link Nancy to the Thrushes. Nancy was married to Leonard Sanderson, but twelve years ago, he died while still in his forties, leaving Nancy a middle-aged widow; they
had no children. When Leonard died, he was in the employ of—guess who—Burton Thrush, and by most accounts, he had helped build Thrush Typo-Tech during its heyday. By the time Leonard died, though, the business was in its early years of decline. What’s more, the terms of Leonard’s employment contract with Thrush were either vague or outdated. The bottom line is that Thrush screwed Nancy out of a proper death settlement. With no other means of support, she had to fend for herself, and that’s when she opened the restaurant.”
I sighed. “And all along, I just assumed that Nancy liked to cook; I thought the Grill was sort of a lark. I had no idea that she’d been forced to earn a living. It probably happened at about the time when she and Leonard were entertaining their first thoughts of retirement.”
Lucy nodded. “Sounds like grounds for a grudge.”
“Sure. But is it grounds for murder?”
“Probably not—if the trouble had ended there, twelve years ago—but it didn’t.”
I sat back. “There’s a chapter two?”
“Oh, yes. Two years ago this fall, Jason Thrush and some of his friends got frisky at the Grill one night and did some substantial damage.”
“Do tell? Doug told me about the incident, but he didn’t specifically mention that it happened at the Grill. Somehow, Thrush managed to keep the entire story out of the Register.”
“Indeed he did.” Lucy displayed the contents of her folder. “This didn’t come from our files. Investigating Nancy’s background, I traced this information from police records. As I understand it, Jason’s father wrote a check for the damages, but never compensated Nancy for two weeks’ lost business during repairs. If you ask me, Nancy should have sued the bastard, but she didn’t.”
I reasoned. “Instead, Nancy chalked off the experience as another encounter with ‘bad blood’ in the Thrush family.”
“Possibly.” Lucy closed the file on her lap. “Or she may have waited, deciding to exact her own brand of justice.”
Later that morning, Thad visited my office with Kwynn Wyman, his theater chum. He had told me that she was involved with the school newspaper and interested in journalism but had never seen “the real thing,” so I gladly invited them downtown for a tour, suggesting we all have lunch afterward.
As I walked them through the offices and the plant, Thad did most of the talking, and I was surprised by the accuracy with which he recalled so many details from his few previous visits. Kwynn gawked wide-eyed at the flicker of dozens of computer terminals in the newsroom, at the hustle of the circulation and advertising departments, at the huge, silent presses that would roar through the middle of the night. Along the way, I stopped to introduce her to reporters and photographers; she seemed amazed to learn that there were real, breathing people behind their familiar bylines.
Retracing our steps to the second-floor newsroom, Kwynn gushed superlatives about her morning’s adventure, and I recalled the old spark that had drawn me to journalism in the first place—its romance, its youthful pace, its high ideals of truth and freedom. These wistful thoughts were nipped, though, by the sight of Sheriff Pierce waiting in my outer office. Assuming he had come to discuss developments on the Jason Thrush case, I asked Lucille Haring if she could spend a few minutes with Thad and Kwynn, hoping to keep the kids distanced from a disturbing topic. Lucy easily read my intentions and began an extemporaneous lecture on recent technical developments in electronic news-gathering. I slipped into my office.
Pierce didn’t see me enter; he was paging through the morning paper. “Hi, Doug,” I greeted him, my voice inexplicably hushed. “What happened?”
He looked up at me and shrugged. “Nothin’. I told you I’d be dropping by this morning—I thought you might want to have lunch.”
I laughed at my own jumpiness. “Sorry, Doug. Sure, now I remember. Thad’s here with Kwynn Wyman; I’m taking them over to the Grill. Care to join us?”
He stood. “I’m not intruding?”
“Of course not. Neil can’t make it—he has another meeting out at Quatro Press—so we’re a foursome.” Lowering my voice again, I asked tentatively, “Any word from Dr. Formhals regarding toxicology?”
Pierce shook his head. “Not yet. I checked with him just before I came over here.”
I glanced at my watch. “Well, then—time to eat.”
Pierce and I walked out to the city room, where I rescued Thad and Kwynn from Lucy’s learned discourse. I gave her a wink of thanks and farewell; then the kids, Pierce, and I headed downstairs to the lobby. Connie, our receptionist, waved from behind her glass cage, saying, “Enjoy your lunch, Mr. Manning.” I saw her check a box on a form, denoting I was out.
Out on First Avenue, Pierce and I walked behind Thad and Kwynn, whose brisk pace seemed too energetic for the midday heat. They chattered all the way. As they passed Neil’s office, I noticed Thad point out the sign to Kwynn. Several steps behind, Pierce and I speculated about the timing of the coroner’s report.
“Do you think he’ll wrap it up today?” I asked.
“It all depends on toxicology. I think we’re getting close though. Vernon said he’d page me as soon as he has something, but it won’t be earlier than one o’clock.”
I instinctively looked at my watch as we stepped up behind Thad and Kwynn at the curb, waiting to cross the street. Thad was directly in front of me, inches away, and I realized that my eyes were level with the top of his ears—he was almost exactly my height. When did that happen?
Thad turned to ask me, “Where’s Neil today?”
“Quatro Press. Another meeting about the plant expansion.”
Kwynn said, “I’ve never seen an architect’s office, Mr. Manning. Would Mr. Waite mind if I stopped in sometime? I mean, when he’s not too busy?” She carried a bag—not exactly a purse, not quite a backpack, sort of a canvas tote bag with shoulder straps, which appeared to be heavy. As we waited at the crosswalk, she moved the straps to her other shoulder.
“I’m sure Neil wouldn’t mind at all.” I smiled. “Just call first.”
She nodded with enthusiasm, then fell back into conversation with Thad.
The light changed, and we all crossed the intersection toward the restaurant, which lay ahead on the next block. Pierce was saying something, nothing important—in truth, I wasn’t listening. I was focused on Thad again, and Kwynn too. Thad, I realized, didn’t look like a kid anymore, and neither did Kwynn. They looked like young adults. What’s more, they looked like a couple. This impression was made all the more vivid when we stepped under the Grill’s awning and Thad paused to open the door for Kwynn. He held it for Pierce and me as well—quite the little gentleman. Except, he wasn’t little.
Entering the restaurant, I was welcomed by the usual rush of air-conditioning, the mixed aromas of serious cooking, the clatter of lunchtime activity. These sensory perceptions, though, remained in the background, diffuse and muted and unremarkable—like wallpaper—as my mind was still locked on the notion that Thad had grown up.
Nancy greeted us with an effusiveness not natural to her. It was the first time she’d seen Thad since the previous Saturday’s performance of Teen Play, which she’d attended, and she was lavish in her praise of Thad’s acting, again making no mention of the hot topic, the death of Jason Thrush. She also recognized Kwynn from her smaller role in the play, hailing her performance as one of the evening’s special highlights. Both Thad and Kwynn were made to feel like visiting celebrities, and as Nancy finished seating us at my usual table, she turned back to tell us with a wink, “Dessert’s on me today.”
I glanced at Pierce with arched brows, mirroring his. Thad and Kwynn lapped up the attention, beaming with toothy smiles.
Eventually we ordered and fell into conversation, all four of us sharing lighthearted patter about the weather, the newspaper tour, the coming school year, and the play, but we managed to avoid the hot topic, at least for a while.
At a pause in the meal between courses, Kwynn finally sighed, her face pinched with worr
y. “It’s not true, is it, Sheriff, that Thad might be arrested? Some of the kids are saying that if—”
“Kwynn,” Pierce stopped her, “there’s no reason for your friends to say such things.”
Though he gave the right answer, the question itself had already produced the predictable effect—Thad’s breezy manner was instantly quelled by the unexpected mention of arrest. I don’t know if the possibility had yet crossed his mind, but now, there it was, openly discussed at lunch by his best friend and the county sheriff.
Berta, our waitress, bustled over to clear salad plates, leaving the glass boat of iced relishes. I helped myself to a slice of pickle, eating with a show of nonchalance till she left the table.
Thad listened, stunned, as Kwynn continued, “It’s just that what happened to Jason is so much like the play itself. Just this morning, I met Thad at the house before we toured the Register, and he got the most awful phone call—some dunce calling him a ‘killer boy toy’ or whatever.”
So Sunday’s prank call was not an isolated instance. Though I’d managed to shield Thad from that first one, another had gotten through to him. Had there been others? He wilted even further as Kwynn recounted it.
She shook her head. “I know Thad didn’t have anything to do with what happened, but some of the kids are saying that he must have. Even Mr. Diggins has been—” She stopped short.
While I was grateful that she at last understood how disturbing Thad found her words, she had raised a topic that interested me greatly. Since the door was already open, I decided to venture in. I asked quietly, “What about Mr. Diggins?”
She turned to Thad briefly, apologetically, then answered, “He’s been talking about, um”—she searched for the word—“ ‘contingencies,’ he calls them, contingencies for this weekend’s run of the play.”
“Huh?” said Thad, now looking more confused than upset.
With a soft laugh, I explained, “Contingencies are options or alternatives when there’s a possible problem.”
With a soft laugh of his own, Thad said, “And the possible problem is, like, me—in jail.” Eyeing the relishes, he helped himself to a pickle.
Boy Toy Page 22
