A few other people are scattered about the church—acquaintances of Joey, no doubt, or perhaps curious locals, lured by the still-fresh news that both Suzanne and Joey were murdered by their “brother from the grave.” What a headline! Chances are, tomorrow’s big front-page Sunday feature detailing my takeover of the Register will be seriously eclipsed by this morning’s unmasking of Parker Trent. And with good reason. This story has it all—deceit, greed, secrets, and lust. Not to mention murder.
Tempted to make a few notes, undoing my snuggle of Roxanne and Neil, I reach beneath my topcoat and remove from my pocket the wonderful old pen I carry everywhere, even here. Rolling the Montblanc in my fingers like a fine cigar, I remove the cap and examine the gold band beneath the nib. Engraved there in tiny letters is the name MARK MANNING, barely legible through the years of wear. Pulling a notepad from my coat, I flip it open and poise my pen, searching for the first words of a story that wants to be told. But my mind is focused on the pen itself, and, once again, one last memory-flash invades my return to Dumont.
I recall one afternoon shortly after my college graduation, a year or so after my mother died. I had recently interviewed with the Chicago Journal, hoping to land my first reporter’s job, but not daring to hope that the Journal would actually take me on. To my astonishment, they did, and I would begin my career there in several weeks.
That afternoon, a small package arrived for me in the mail, and I saw from the return address that it had been sent from Dumont by my uncle Edwin. I had met the man only twice—during my boyhood visit, then much later at my mother’s funeral—and I would never see him again. The oblong package was about the shape of a wristwatch, which seemed a good guess for a graduation present, so I opened it greedily, hoping to replace the battered watch that had seen me through high school as well as college.
But instead of a watch, the package contained a fountain pen, an old one. The note with it read:
Dear Mark,
Your mother used to say that we Quatrains must have ink in our blood—there have been so many printers in our family. Now I’ve learned that you have just been hired by the Chicago Journal. You won’t be printing, but you’ll be writing, and I’m gratified to know that there’s ink in your blood, too.
A writer needs a pen, and a great writer needs a great pen. I have treasured this one for years, and I want you to have it. If you look closely at the engraving near the nib, you will see that it belonged to your father.
If you ever have the inclination to visit Dumont again, I’d like to introduce you to my good friend Barret Logan, founder and publisher of our local paper—a pretty good one, by all reports. Who knows? If things don’t work out for you at the Journal, I might be able to pull some strings and find you something at the Dumont Daily Register. (Just kidding, of course.)
Best of luck, Mark, and congratulations!
Love,
Uncle Edwin
Glancing up now from the blank page of my steno pad, I notice that Father Winter is at last wrapping up his sermon, but my thoughts are still with Uncle Edwin. His suggestion that I consider working at the Register, which I found laughable twenty years ago, has proved prophetic. And while I didn’t rely on him to pull strings on my behalf, it was his money (passed on to me through Suzanne) that allowed me to buy the paper. Looking about, I wonder if Barret Logan is here in the congregation today.
Though there is no choir, an organist begins plodding through some homely hymn that no one sings. Again I grope for the opening phrase of a story I want to write, but the words seem to resist the tangibility of ink. Then it dawns on me. I’m too close to this. This is family. This is me. Though page-one material, this will never carry my byline. This is a tale I can spin only in my mind. So, closing my notebook, I cap my father’s pen.
When the Mass has finished and all of us rise, Father Winter escorts Joey’s casket down the center aisle toward the back of the church, accompanied by another hymn on the organ, badly played. Those of us in the front pews are the first to follow, giving me a clear view of the others waiting to leave. I notice that Barret Logan is indeed among the small crowd, accompanied by Glee Savage, who wears a big-brimmed black hat with mourning veil—she looks like a beekeeper. Standing nearby is Elliot Coop, the Quatrains’ longtime family lawyer.
“My God,” Roxanne says into my ear, tugging at my sleeve, “look over there.” She jerks her head toward one of the back pews. “Isn’t that Lucille Haring?”
“Hey, Mark,” whispers Neil, tugging my other sleeve, “it’s Lucy.”
I peer toward the woman, squinting. She’s lean and mannish, with a bright shock of short red hair, wearing a drab-colored double-breasted topcoat, its styling vaguely military. Sure enough, it’s Lucy. “What’s she doing here?”
Lucille Haring is the woman I worked with on my last big story at the Journal. She applied for the managing editor’s job here in Dumont, and although she was extremely qualified, I was reluctant to consider her because Gordon Smith, my mentor at the Journal, found her indispensable there in the publisher’s office. Then Parker Trent came along, and… well, here we are back at square one.
Catching her eye, I acknowledge her with a nod as the procession wends its stately course toward the doors of the church.
In accordance with Father Winter’s initial no-fuss strictures regarding this service, there will be no graveside liturgy for Joey—he’ll be buried without ceremony at a later date when there’s a break in the cold weather. So Joey’s casket is carried outdoors to the waiting hearse, but the mourners remain inside, beginning to mingle in the vestibule.
Father Winter, his duties dispatched, turns and claps a hand on Thad’s shoulder, telling him, “I wish we could have done more for your dear uncle, but we had so little notice—I’m sure you understand the circumstances.”
Thad won’t answer the man, but flashes him a look of disgust. With a wry, proud grin, I tell myself, That’s my boy…
Roxanne hugs herself through her fur, saying to me, loudly enough for the priest to hear, “For a Quatrain, that wasn’t much of a show—I’m surprised the good padre even bothered to turn on the lights.”
Jabbing her a silent behave-yourself, I turn to Thad, intending to offer some encouraging words for the future, but Miriam Westerman has already pulled him toward the door, fussing at him. Approaching them both, I tell them, “We’re having some people over to the house. I hope you’ll join us.”
Thad’s features immediately brighten, but Miriam snuffs the notion, telling him, “You’ve already spent quite enough time on Prairie Street, Ariel. I’m taking you home.” As she yanks the big gnarled handle and opens the door, a gust of dry, frigid air furls her cape.
I poke my head out the door to call after them, “I’ll be in touch, Thad. And I’ll see you in court, Miriam.” And they are gone.
Back inside the vestibule, Elliot Coop guides me a few feet beyond earshot of the others. Through an excited whisper, he tells me, “In spite of the tragic events we’ve gathered to mourn today, I have a morsel of news you may find a tad… ‘heartening,’ Mr. Manning.”
That’s intriguing. “Yes?” The recessional hymn has ended, but the organist continues to improvise funeral-parlor background music, replete with a cheesy electronic tremolo.
The lawyer bubbles, “I’ve just learned that Thad’s custody case will not be going to trial. On the basis of Miss Exner’s written memoranda, the judge threw out Miriam’s petition as groundless—and he’s furious with Harley Kaiser for having meddled in the first place.”
Having not expected the issue to be resolved so neatly, I break into a smile, asking him, “How soon does the decision take effect?”
“At once,” Elliot tells me. “If you like, I’ll inform Sheriff Pierce—Thad should be back under your roof by nightfall.”
Before I can respond, Elliot continues, “I hardly need to add, Mr. Manning, that with the custody issue resolved, those dangling questions regarding Suzanne’s will are n
ow moot. Which means: you’re a very wealthy man.”
With an effort to control my excitement, I tell him offhandedly, “Well now”—fake laugh—“that is ‘heartening,’ isn’t it? Thanks for all your efforts, Elliot.”
“I am but a humble servant,” he assures me, feigning the obsequious manner that serves as his style of humor.
I sidestep in Neil’s direction, eager to fill him in. But I find him already occupied with Roxanne, introducing Lucille Haring to Barret Logan and Glee Savage.
“Ah, yes,” says Logan, “I vividly recall the role you played in Mark’s big astronomy story last summer. Wonderful work, wonderful exposé.”
I butt in, “Lucy! My God, what brings you up here?” I offer her a little hug, but her response is predictably stiff—she’d prefer to shake hands.
“It’s rather a long story,” she tells me, all business, “but Gordon Smith is moving from the Journal down to the JournalCorp paper in Orlando. He was acting publisher, as you know, and the board has passed him over in favor of younger blood. The upshot is this, Mark: I’m seeking a position elsewhere, and my first preference is here, with you. So I tore up here this weekend, hoping we could talk face-to-face about it. Arriving in town, I didn’t know where to find you, so I phoned the newsroom at the Register and learned… well, everything.” Then, with uncharacteristically cynical humor, she adds, “I hear things didn’t quite work out with Parker Trent.”
“My dear,” gasps Glee, stepping into our conversation, “he fooled us all. He asked me out to dinner with him this coming Monday, and I accepted. God knows what his intentions may have been. He was devilishly attractive, of course, but I can’t believe I fell for the guy!”
Lucy deadpans, “I doubt that would have.”
Neil and I struggle to stifle a laugh (we’re in church, after all), knowing that Lucille Haring’s interests focus more on the likes of Glee than Parker. From previous experience, Roxanne knows this, too, and her reaction to Lucy’s comment is considerably more reserved than Neil’s and mine.
I tell Lucy, “As for job prospects, your timing couldn’t be better. We’re having a little reception over at the house. Why don’t you join us? We can talk.”
“Thanks. Perfect. I’d love to.”
I suggest, “Roxanne, maybe you could ride over with Lucy and show her the way. There’s something I need to discuss with Neil.”
Roxanne deadpans, “Thanks. Perfect. I’d love to.” And she escorts Lucille Haring toward the door.
As they are leaving, Lucy tells Roxanne, “I see you’ve grown your hair longer. I liked it better short.”
I ask Glee Savage and Barret Logan, “Care to join us?”
“For a brief while, surely,” says Logan. “I haven’t quite finished cleaning out my office downtown, and I want to wrap it up today.”
Glee reminds me, “You said that when all the facts were in, I’d get the assignment to write Suzanne’s story. I’m anxious to get cracking on it, Mark.”
“It’s all yours,” I tell her. “But you’ll never make today’s deadline, so you might as well join us for a drink.”
“Might as well,” she admits, and, after she offers Logan her arm, they stroll together from the church.
By now the organ has stopped warbling, and an altar boy has snuffed the candles in the sanctuary. Father Winter has retreated to the sacristy, where he noisily flips circuit breakers; the lights hanging from the Gothic-arched ceiling blink out in sequence, marching from the altar to the door. The old boiler drones pathetically from the basement. “Guess it’s time to leave,” I tell Neil.
Sheriff Pierce breaks away from a clump of people near the door. He takes us aside, telling me, “I didn’t want to talk to you about it while Thad was still here with Miriam, but the department got a final report on Austin Reece, Thad’s father.”
I nod, recalling, “You mentioned before that you were having trouble tracking him down.”
“With good reason,” says Pierce. “Reece died years ago. Car accident. Too bad—I got the impression Thad might want to meet him. When the time is right, could you let the kid know?”
“Sure, Doug. Thanks for the word.”
Judging from his tone, it’s clear that he doesn’t know that the custody issue has been resolved. I’ll let him hear this from Elliot Coop—I’ve yet to tell Neil about it.
Joining a few stragglers who button their coats and don their gloves, Pierce, Neil, and I brave our way out the door and into the bright but arctic afternoon. Traipsing down the broad front steps of the church, I ask Pierce, “Coming over to the house?”
“Can’t,” he explains. “On duty.” Then he shakes our hands in parting, walking off toward the parking lot.
Neil and I cross the street, headed toward my car. As our feet crunch the pavement’s rutted ice, I mention, “By the way—I’ve got some great news.”
Turn the page to continue reading from the Mark Manning Mysteries
PART ONE
Small World
‘ROYAL’ VISIT PLANNED
Local shopkeeper announces a big event in her miniature world
By GLEE SAVAGE Trends Editor, Dumont Daily Register
SEPT. 14, DUMONT WI—GRACE LORD, PROPRIETOR OF THE NOOK, A LOCAL SHOP SPECIALIZING IN LILLIPUTIAN FURNITURE AND ACCESSORIES FOR DOLLHOUSES, ANNOUNCED YESTERDAY THAT HER STORE WILL HOST THE ANNUAL REGIONAL EXHIBITION OF THE MIDWEST MINIATURES SOCIETY.
The show opens next weekend, on Saturday, September 23, in a large unused storefront on Tyner Avenue adjacent to The Nook. More than 100 renowned artisans and exhibitors will draw thousands of enthusiasts from Wisconsin and beyond.
Plans for the show have been under way for months, Lord (64) told the Register, but she learned just last week that Mr. Carrol Cantrell, the reigning “king of miniatures,” has unexpectedly accepted her invitation to judge the show’s main event, a roombox competition.
“Roomboxes,” she explained, “are the preferred medium of most serious artisans and collectors. A single room is constructed in exacting detail, minus its fourth wall, resembling a model for a stage setting.” She added that these rooms are typically built at one-twelfth scale, depicting a particular theme or design period. Figures of people are rarely used, so the finished room-box bears little resemblance to the common notion of a “dollhouse.”
Carrol Cantrell (50), described by Lord as “a very big man in a very small world,” is founder of the Hall of Miniatures, a large Los Angeles-based museum and store known as mecca to the miniatures crowd. Lord added, “Everyone in the field refers to him simply as Carrol, a name that is as readily understood as Barbra or Jackie.”
Grace Lord modestly concedes that she accomplished no less than a professional coup in convincing Cantrell to judge the regional show at The Nook. “For one glorious weekend,” she told this reporter with a wistful sigh, “Dumont, Wisconsin, will be the center of the universe—at least within our little world.”
Thursday, September 14
WHAT’S IN A NAME?
Any journalist knows that the first order of business is to nail down the facts—the who, what, where, when, why, and how. The first of these, the who, the name of the subject, generally leads the story. The rest merely explains why that person warrants ink. An oversimplification? Maybe. But the fact remains that almost every story is about people. And we come to know people first by their names.
My name is Mark Manning. I’m forty-two, a writer by training who left his career with the Chicago Journal late last year, moving north to take over the reins of the Dumont Daily Register. My move was greeted with a measure of dismay by city friends, who insisted that my investigative-reporting skills would be wasted “up there on the tundra.” I chose to refocus my career in central Wisconsin because my family roots are here, in a clean, prosperous, generally quiet little town named Dumont (the place bears no resemblance to a tundra). A sizable inheritance from my mother’s family allowed me to buy the Register. I now serve as both its publisher and its ed
itor.
My features editor is a woman named Glee Savage—how’s that for a handle? On a Thursday morning in mid-September, she ran a story in our “Trends” section announcing that a local shopkeeper, Grace Lord, had secured the services of one Carrol Cantrell as judge of a miniatures show that would soon open. I had never met Grace Lord, though I recognized the family name as having something of a pedigree in Dumont. I had never heard of Carrol Cantrell, despite his stature among the dollhouse demimonde; indeed, this whole business of slaving over bitsy box-sized rooms was entirely unknown to me. Chatting with Glee in a corner of the newsroom, I complimented her on the bizarre story, but couldn’t resist asking, “Are these people nuts, or just eccentric?”
“Neither!” she assured me, feigning umbrage at my comment, stretching her big red lips into a sneer. Some ten years older than I, she peered at me over her half-frame reading glasses, lecturing, “The mini world is serious business, not just some frivolous hobby.” She grinned. “The ‘king’ is arriving this morning to take up residence for the week in Grace Lord’s coach house. She invited me over to meet him—he sounds like quite a character, a good subject for a follow-up feature. Why don’t you tag along?”
It was a slow morning, and my curiosity was piqued, so I did tag along—in fact, I drove. No question, my big black Bavarian V-8 would be apt to make a far loftier impression on King Carrol than would Glee’s fuchsia hatchback, so we pulled away from the Register’s offices in style. Turning off First Avenue, Dumont’s main street, I left the downtown area and drove several blocks along Park Street, crossing Wisconsin and Vincennes Avenues, toward Prairie Street. There, in what is arguably the town’s nicest old residential neighborhood, I live with my lover of three years, Neil Waite, and my nephew, Thad Quatrain.
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