Boy Toy

by Michael Craft

  Gazing at the list of names, I recalled with relief that Thad had been a miserable chemistry student during his junior year; no one could argue that he had sufficient skill to pull off any of the scenarios suggested by the coroner. I inked a thick X over Thad’s box on the grid.

  But, I wondered, what about Tommy Morales? I knew nothing of his academic record—was he perhaps a chemistry wiz? An enticing question mark snaked through his box.

  Then I focused on the Thrushes. Mica was a total ditz who wouldn’t know a centrifuge from a Bunsen burner—she got a quick X—but her father, Burton Thrush, was another matter. I’d learned just an hour ago from Nancy Sanderson that Burton, like Nancy’s late husband, Leonard, was a chemist. Now there was a promising angle, explaining how the sickly Mr. Thrush could pump new life into his ailing business with an enormous and badly needed insurance payoff. I darkened Burton’s box so forcefully, my pen nearly tore the paper.

  And what about Nancy herself? Might her masterful kitchen techniques be matched by devilish lab skills? Her own husband, after all, was something of a test-tube genius whose experimentation may have triggered his untimely death. Had Nancy picked up a few tricks of her own along the way, techniques that would allow her to exact grim revenge on the family that had, in her own words, made her life “a living hell”? A question mark now adorned Nancy’s square on the grid.

  Denny Diggins—I doodled around his square. Where, if at all, did he fit into this? His only accuser was the lamebrained Mica Thrush, who claimed that Denny had been in the throes of a tempestuous sexual relationship with her brother. It didn’t add up, I felt. Denny himself had asked, “Do you think I’d dare hope that Jason could love me?” Even Mica had echoed that question. Still, she stood by her story, and the story was appealing because it led back to the Players Guild.

  Everything about Jason and his death seemed so…well, theatrical. He was a hunky young heartthrob, a teenage actor tragically downed in his prime (by poisonous mushrooms, no less) on the very evening he was to debut the starring role in an original play. The dramatic overtones of his murder had escaped no one, and for this very reason, Thad was seen by many as the prime suspect.

  Though my list included several people who had gained some form of satisfaction from Jason’s death—Nancy Sanderson, Mica Thrush, and her father, Burton—these names were not associated with the Players Guild, which is where my instincts pointed. Among those involved with Teen Play, Thad was never a real suspect in my eyes, while the others—Denny Diggins, Tommy Morales, and Nicole Winkler—were suspicious only by virtue of mere conjecture.

  Mulling over the coroner’s new angle that the killer would need a good deal of lab savvy, I realized that I was lucky to have a valuable resource at my disposal. Frank Gelden, who had so willingly offered his know-how in exploring the coroner’s initial theory, had since underscored his friendship to Neil and me and would doubtless be willing to help again. He had accurately deduced that Dr. Formhals had targeted fly agaric. As an experienced researcher, Frank was surely familiar with the techniques now described by Formhals. Perhaps Frank could be of help in identifying others who might share this background—others who had some involvement with the Players Guild.

  “Excuse me, Vernon.”

  The coroner’s extended scientific monologue clipped to a halt as he reacted to the sound of my voice. From behind his desk, he looked at me as if he’d forgotten my presence. With a jolt of recognition, he asked, “Yes, Mark?”

  Leafing to the back of my notebook, I said, “I wonder if I might use your phone. Something just occurred to me.”

  “Of course.” He turned the desk phone in my direction. “Be my guest.”

  I found the Geldens listed among several other recent acquaintances. Closing my notebook, I lifted the receiver. I explained to Formhals while dialing, “I have a biologist friend who’s knowledgeable about mushrooms, and he happens to be tech director at the Dumont Playhouse. I’m hoping he’ll be able to steer me—” I raised a finger, as the other phone had begun ringing.

  After four rings without an answer, my call transferred to voice mail. “Hi,” gushed a breathy voice, Cynthia’s. “You’ve reached the Dunne-Gelden residence, but neither Frank nor Cynthia is available at the moment. Please leave a message, and we’ll get back in two winks.” Beep.

  Shaking my head, I hung up—two winks, indeed.

  Formhals asked tentatively, “Is something… funny?”

  “Not very. It was just the phone message, promising to get back ‘in two winks.’ ”

  “How precious.” Formhals gave me a big, exaggerated wink, bursting into laughter. I couldn’t recall having seen him indulge in an expression of mirth more forceful than a low chortle, so this reaction was tantamount to an outburst.

  Getting in the spirit, I reminded him, “That was two winks—you owe me one.”

  So he supplied the other wink, laughing all the louder.

  To my mind, it wasn’t all that funny, but he was clearly enjoying himself, so I chuckled along, waiting for his laughing jag to pass. It didn’t though. Instead, his hilarity seemed to snowball, and soon he was pounding the desk, gasping for air. “My God…two winks!” Which of course proved infectious. Before long, I was whooping away with him.

  And then, I almost gagged on my own laughter. All this talk of “two winks” had led me to recall that there was not just one Winkler, but two, the pretty Nicole and her mother, Joyce. I’d been focusing on Nicole, Jason’s jilted armpiece, but I hadn’t given her mom a second thought. I now realized that she too had an ax to grind. Joyce was one of the first people I’d met at the previous Wednesday’s dress rehearsal—the costume mistress who’d volunteered for the show in order to do some bonding with her despondent daughter. When she’d complained about having to juggle night shifts on her “real job,” Denny had explained, “Joyce is a lab technician at the hospital.”

  “Mark?” said Formhals, swiping a tear from his face. “What’s wrong?” His jollity had subsided, done in by my own sudden seriousness.

  “Nothing’s wrong, but something may be falling together here. Tell me, Vernon, would a hospital lab technician be likely to have knowledge and skills sufficient to extract the mushroom toxins in the manner you’ve described?”

  He paused in thought, eyes to the ceiling. “Depends on the specific job, but sure, anyone employed in hospital tech work should have some fairly advanced lab skills.” His gaze returned to me. “Why? Who is it?”

  “It’s someone in the theater group who may have had a vendetta against Jason—in other words, a motive for murder. Now I know she also had the means to extract mushroom toxins, the apparent murder weapon.”

  Formhals arched his brows. “You’re getting close then.”

  I frowned, idly flapping my notepad, as if expecting answers to spill from its pages. “What I don’t know—at least not yet—is whether she had the opportunity to poison Jason.”

  Thad was despondent at dinner, so I offered to drive him to the midweek pickup rehearsal. In truth, I’d been scheming since my afternoon meeting with the coroner, trying to come up with an excuse to go to the theater that evening, so Thad’s mood proved opportune. Pushing food around his plate, he accepted my offer with a listless “Whatever.”

  Driving downtown a few minutes before seven, I asked Thad, in the guise of idle conversation, “Fly agaric—ever heard of it?”

  With a sour grin, he asked back, “You mean, before this morning’s news?”

  “Yeah. I had no idea that honest-to-God poisonous mushrooms were growing in the wild around here. Did you learn about them in school?”

  “Well, sure.” He turned to me, showing a bit of life, a spark of genuine interest. “We cover the bad mushrooms with the good in Fungus Amongus—that’s the whole point of the club.”

  “Makes sense, I guess. Fly agaric—it even sounds nasty. Are they ugly?”

  “Not at all. In fact, fly agaric is among the more beautiful of the local species. Later tonight,
I’ll show you some—I’ve got a jarful in my room.”

  “Really? What are you doing with something like that?”

  He shrugged, as if the answer were obvious. “They’re left over from the field exam we had at the end of the semester.”

  “Ah.” With a satisfied smile, I understood that Thad’s “secret stash” was, as I’d hoped, nothing the least bit sinister or incriminating. I could now dismiss the nagging suspicion that had vexed me since Monday evening and focus squarely in the direction suggested by Dr. Formhals that afternoon.

  Turning onto First Avenue, I asked, “Mind if I hang around the theater awhile? Just want to see how it’s going.”

  “No problem.” He smiled faintly, having read my concern, if not my intention. “You can watch the whole show if you like.”

  “Well, I’m always up for a bit of good theater.”

  He laughed quietly. “Don’t count on it.” I was afraid he meant that he anticipated giving a lousy performance, but he explained, “Pickup rehearsals are always on the sloppy side. There’s no makeup or costumes—it’s just a refresher for lines and tech cues.”

  “Ah.” Still, I’d stay. I wasn’t interested so much in watching the play as in observing the dynamics of the cast and crew. My plan was not to be entertained, but to unmask a killer.

  Pulling into the parking lot near the stage door, I saw that most of the troupe had already arrived; many of the cars had begun to look familiar to me. I locked up my own car and crossed the lot with Thad. The stage door had been propped wide open, and I assumed that the theater had heated up again during the week. Though the days had begun to shorten and the sun hung low in the midsummer sky, it was going to be a hot night.

  Inside, cast and crew milled together around the stage and in the auditorium. Because of the heat, almost everyone wore shorts and a T-shirt; I recalled Thad telling me that this rehearsal would not be in costume, which gave me a sudden worry: Would Joyce Winkler, the show’s costumer, be there that night? After all, she wasn’t needed. But then I noticed Joyce sitting with her daughter Nicole on the far side of the stage. Nicole looked bereft, as she had since Jason’s death, and Joyce spoke to her softly, stroking the girl’s honey-colored tresses.

  Thad spotted Kwynn Wyman, who was busy at a folding table checking paperwork against a list (advance ticket sales, possibly), and walked over to join her. I descended a short stairway from the stage apron to the auditorium floor. Banks of lights flashed in sequence as circuits were tested from the control booth. Tommy Morales sat off by himself with his nose planted, as usual, in a script, readying himself to step into yet another new role—that of Ryan, Thad’s character. Walking up the center aisle, I passed the makeshift director’s table in the fifth row. Denny Diggins acknowledged me with a quiet, neutral “Mahk,” and I returned the scant greeting with an equally limp “Denny.”

  I took a seat about two-thirds back and checked my watch; it was several minutes past seven. The upper rows of the auditorium were stifling, and I knew that I was in for a long, sticky evening. I had on the same dress slacks I’d worn to the office, as well as the same shirt, collar open, arms rolled up a few turns. I wished I’d had sense enough to wear something more comfortable. In the dim, warm light that glowed from the stage, I opened three more buttons below my collar.

  “People!” said Denny, thwacking his hands. “Listen up. We’re running a bit late already, so gather round. I have a few announcements.” He picked up his clipboard and glanced through several pages of notes, waiting for his “people.”

  As the cast and crew converged from scattered areas of the theater, I couldn’t help noting how the tone of things had changed in a week. The previous Wednesday at dress rehearsal, everyone had shared an upbeat mood of anticipation, itching to open the show. Tonight, though, the entire company seemed sullen and demoralized, wanting only to be done with it. What’s more, I noticed with dismay that the group was now clearly divided into factions, forming two clumps as they approached Denny’s table. On the one side were Thad, Kwynn, and a handful of other kids; on the other were Tommy Morales and everyone else.

  “All right,” said Denny. “Let me begin by telling all of you how proud I am—of you, and of the show. We opened under taxing, tragic circumstances, and you rose to the challenge like pros. We’ve enjoyed good press and great audiences, and we’re assured of three more sellout crowds this weekend. It’s only natural to feel a bit of a midrun slump, so we all need to focus tonight, get back in the groove, and remember what we’re here for.”

  When he paused for breath, a hand shot up, and a girl in the cast asked, “Mr. Diggins? If Tommy takes over as Ryan, who’ll play Dawson?” And the whole group broke into animated discussion. Thad, naturally, looked stunned.

  So did Denny. “Melissa,” he scolded above the yammering, “nothing’s been said about a cast change.”

  “But,” said someone else, a guy on the running crew, “what about the… you know, the contingencies?”

  Denny managed to shush everyone. “I know we’ve had some difficulties, and I know there have been rumors of a cast change, but that’s pure speculation—at this point. There’s nothing to it.”

  “ ‘At this point,’ ” someone repeated skeptically.

  “Tonight,” said Denny, “we’re running the show exactly as before. Try to keep the pacing up, and let’s try to recapture some of that lost energy.”

  Kwynn spoke up. “Don’t worry, Mr. Diggins. The show’s in good shape. Once we’re up and running again, we’ll look better than ever.” Pointedly, she added, “All of us.”

  Thad squeezed her wrist, mouthing, Thanks.

  Denny beamed. “Now that’s the attitude.” Flipping a page of his notes, he said, “There’s no ‘good’ time to talk about this, so I might as well mention it before we begin. As you may have heard, now that the coroner has issued his report, Jason’s body has been released for burial. The family announced this afternoon that the funeral will be held this Saturday morning. There’ll be a huge turnout, of course, and I assume everyone here plans to attend. I think it’d be a nice gesture if all of us from the Players Guild attended as a group—en masse, as it were.”

  Couldn’t Denny have predicted the effect this little speech would have on the troupe? Certainly, there was no “good” time to make funeral plans for a murdered colleague—but now? With Kwynn’s help, he had just succeeded in psyching up the cast to put the past behind them and pull together for a rough rehearsal, but now his mention of “the coroner” and “Jason’s body” had brought the group back to the grim reality of what had happened.

  A wave of chattering swept over the kids, punctuated by a chorus of moans. Nicole broke into loud sobs; Joyce hugged her daughter’s shoulders, looking off into space with a steely expression. Someone from Tommy’s faction started to say, “There wouldn’t be a funeral at all if—” but he stopped short of saying Thad’s name. A girl from Tommy’s crowd shouted over the noise to Denny, “I don’t think it’s right for all of us to be there,” meaning Thad was not welcome. Thad rested his forehead in one hand; Kwynn patted his hair and whispered something in his ear. Denny watched with a disapproving glare, waiting for the ruckus to fizzle out.

  When the kids finally calmed down, Denny had sense enough to drop the topic he had so imprudently raised. “We’re here to rehearse,” he reminded everyone. “Places, please. And let’s give it some pizazz.”

  As instructed, the cast disappeared backstage, the crew took their posts. The work lights onstage flicked out, the houselights dimmed, and after a few moments’ blackout, the stage lights rose and the scene was set. I heard the familiar opening lines of dialogue before Thad would make his entrance as Ryan. Everything was the same as at the two performances I’d attended, except for the mishmash of street clothes worn by the young actors.

  Thad entered, and as soon as he opened his mouth, I knew he was in trouble. The events of the past week, coupled with the near unanimous hostility vented only minutes earlier
by the rest of the cast, had taken their toll. Thad’s movements looked unsure and clumsy; his vocal delivery lacked projection and realism. Worst of all, he began to flub lines, and without the assistance of other cast members who should have fed him cues, he broke character during several agonizing silences.

  Tommy Morales—need I mention?—was superb in his performance as Dawson. He was thoroughly in control and growing into the role, easily stealing the show. Watching Tommy’s interaction with Thad, I was grateful not to be responsible for the decision that Denny Diggins was surely weighing.

  Thad was dragging the whole show down. Even I could tell that the pacing was off by a mile or two; act one was running many minutes longer than it should have. At last, though, the action arrived at the fight scene, the finale before intermission. Thad’s weeks of rehearsing the precisely choreographed climax were for naught. I could barely watch as he stumbled about the stage with Tommy, who did his best to give the scene a measure of dramatic tension and realism. Finally—mercifully—the phone started ringing, the lamp crashed from the table, Tommy recited Dawson’s threat, and upon his exit, the lights blacked out.

  I recalled, a week earlier at dress rehearsal, Denny leaping to his feet at this point, shouting, “Mah-velous!”

  Not tonight. “All right,” he said dryly as the houselights rose, “that was a bit rough. However, that’s the reason we rehearse—thank God there wasn’t an audience.” He glanced at his pile of notes and checked his watch. “Look, we’re running way late. Take a short break—ten minutes, please—then we’ll run act two. Notes at the end.” He sat back thinking, shaking his head.

  The cast hopped down from the stage, stepping out of character. They mingled, chatted, and gulped soda, conspicuously avoiding Thad. Kwynn stuck by him though, ever cheery, trying to draw him into conversation with whoever was near. The theater seemed even hotter than before, and everyone was sweating. Thad was drenched from the rigors of the fight scene.