Name Games

by Michael Craft

  Pocketing his phone, he cinched his robe tighter and reached to shake her hand from where he stood in the doorway. After an exchange of strained pleasantries, he asked, “Are you…a collector?”

  She looked at him blankly. “Collector of what?”

  As if addressing an idiot (I was enjoying this), he said, “Miniatures, of course.”

  She laughed awkwardly. “Oh—no—not really.” And she said nothing more, offering no explanation for her presence.

  Understandably, Carrol now seemed more baffled than annoyed. Assuming he would be equally confused by the appearance of his other visitor, I told Carrol, “And this is Harley Kaiser, district attorney for Dumont County.”

  “Really?” Contrary to what I expected, Carrol’s tone carried no ring of surprise, but rather a note of recognition, as if he’d somehow been expecting Kaiser to appear at his door. It was apparent that the two had never met, but Carrol seemed fully aware of who Kaiser was. Shaking hands, he peered intently at Kaiser, as if attaching a face to a name. If my theory was correct that Sheriff Pierce and Carrol had been sleeping together, had Pierce told Carrol about the DA? Such a conversation didn’t strike me as probable pillow talk.

  In a tone that was instantly more gracious, Carrol continued, “How rude of me—leaving you all standing outdoors. Do come in.” He stepped aside, admitting us. “But I warn you: the place is a fright. I haven’t quite gotten settled yet.” That was an understatement.

  The space itself was charming. Grace Lord’s coach house was essentially one big room under the barn-roof gables. Dormer windows fetched treetop views from both sides, framed by those lacy tiebacks I’d seen from the ground. At one end was a bathroom with a small closet and galley kitchen nearby, but most of the quarters was open space that served as living room, dining room, and bedroom. The furnishings all had a tasteful “country” feel, upholstered in cheery chintzes and crisp ginghams. The wide, painted floorboards creaked underfoot, muffled by a scattering of colorful rag rugs. The overall effect of the room was comfortable and tidy.

  While the room’s new tenant may have been comfortable there, he was anything but tidy. For starters, the contents of his luggage could not begin to fit inside the tiny closet, so clothes were hung wherever he could hook their hangers—from rafters, curtain rods, and doorknobs. The luggage itself gaped open from the seats of chairs, containing a variety of items still unpacked—shoes, stacks of magazines, little corrugated boxes, a hair dryer, and a prodigious array of toiletries and cosmetics.

  This sense of disarray went beyond the obvious problem that Carrol had brought too much stuff. He’d had two days to get settled, and instead of making the best of a cramped situation, he’d created a shambles. Knotted bedclothes spilled from the king-size mattress to the floor. Damp towels hung from chair backs or lay wadded where they’d fallen. Magazines and file folders overflowed a diminutive writing desk. The dining table had been forced into duty as additional work space, where Carrol’s laptop was open and running, a document displayed upon its glowing screen. Surrounding the computer, amid fanned-out piles of paperwork, were some of the little corrugated boxes, opened, containing pieces of miniature furniture—gorgeous tiny desks and curios and upholstered chairs, all incredibly detailed. Were these in fact examples of Bruno Hérisson’s artistry?

  Also near the computer were some of the magazines Carrol had unpacked, and I now noticed that the common theme of these publications was not dollhouses, but beefcake. Unfolded centerspreads displayed horny muscle-guys getting it on together. The unexpected sight of their oiled bodies sucked me, momentarily, into their frozen, glossy, four-color frenzy.

  I was not the only one to notice the orgy on the table. Kaiser and Miriam, engaged in some pointless chatter with Carrol, had moved into the room and now stood within a foot of the table, both of them staring down at it, preoccupied by what they saw there. I got the impression that Kaiser had never before seen such explicit depictions of male couplings—his wide-eyed reaction seemed more amazed than aghast. Miriam, however, wrinkled her face in open disgust, which rather surprised me—her objection to pornography, after all, was that it constitutes “violence against women,” and believe me, there were no women being violated on the dining-room table that morning.

  I was also surprised by Carrol’s nonchalance. There he was, blithely grousing about the “wretched wet weather” he’d left in California, seemingly oblivious to the fact that these two strangers were gawking at material that most people would hide somewhere. He made no move to tuck away the magazines or to steer his visitors from the table. Instead, he gabbed on while leaning to peck at his computer, shutting it down. With a bleep, the screen went dark.

  He was something of an enigma, Carrol Cantrell. Not only was the king of miniatures a key figure in a bizarre little world that struck me as somewhat obsessive—possibly neurotic—but he also embodied a variety of contradictory traits. Consider: On the day he arrived, he was impeccably dressed and fastidiously groomed, so appearances obviously mattered to him. But now he looked like hell, his room was a wreck, and he had no qualms about baring this unvarnished glimpse of his morning to three unexpected visitors. Did he think us all rubes in Wisconsin, with opinions that weren’t worth fretting over? Or was he jaded by his own celebrity status, no longer caring how he was seen or thought of, confident that his reign could withstand all? Or (and this was my best theory) was he simply sated by two nights in the sack with Doug Pierce? That could well explain Carrol’s carefree attitude, his afterglow, his ready dismissal of protocol.

  Once my thoughts had turned in this direction, I could not easily shake them. While drifting in and out of a conversation that eluded me (Kaiser made some disparaging remark about the American Civil Liberties Union, but it seemed gratuitous, lacking context), I scoured the room for any evidence that Pierce had been spending his nights there. My gaze began at the bed, naturally—as if the sheriff would have been absentminded enough to leave his holster hanging on the headboard. Finding neither gun, badge, nor handcuffs, my probing eye left the bed, circling the room.

  I knew very well that this was none of my business. My curiosity was motivated by little more than—what, idle nosiness? Or was it something more akin to jealousy? Don’t go there, I warned myself. What could I possibly regard as the object of jealousy? A quick fling? I was committed to a loving relationship, and I’d learned through experience that there are ways in which it must not be tested. Besides, I had no interest whatever in bedding Carrol Cantrell. But what about Doug Pierce? Though Doug and I…

  This examination of conscience was interrupted when my eye tripped on something as it passed across the top of a dresser. More accurately, my eye tripped on “nothing,” a space on the wall where something seemed to be missing. The top of the dresser held an unremarkable assortment of whatnot—little crystal figures, framed snapshots and other Lord-family memorabilia, an arrangement of dried strawflowers, a dish for change, a pair of brass candleholders with milk-glass chimneys. The candleholders were placed symmetrically at either end of the dresser, and between them on the wall hung nothing. It looked as if a mirror belonged there. And sure enough, there was a hook in the wall. Then I remembered the enlarged photo of Grace’s nephew Ward, which I had helped remove from these quarters—surely that was what had hung above the dresser. Though I had solved this little mystery, the bare spot on the wall was oddly troublesome. Was I doting again on the image of the boy? Or was I simply reacting to the questionable aesthetics of the bare wall?

  Completing my inspection of the room, my eyes came to rest again where they had started, on the bed. Just as I concluded that my search had been fruitless, just as I reminded myself to focus on Carrol’s conversation with Kaiser and Miriam, I noticed something protruding from under a pillow that had been flung onto a night-stand. If I wasn’t mistaken, it was a crimped tube of K-Y, a medical lubricant favored by many as sex grease. Though this discovery in no way provided hard evidence of the liaison I suspected, it certainly
fueled that suspicion, and I found myself agitated by the image it conjured. Drop this, I told myself. This doesn’t concern you. Doug’s an adult. He’s forty-five. He’s alone. Maybe he needed this.

  “As a matter of fact,” said Carrol, “it is.” He wagged his nickel Medic Alert bracelet, the only jewelry he wore that morning, explaining to Kaiser and Miriam, “I’m allergic to nuts, that’s all. Severely allergic, in fact, but otherwise, I’m healthy as an ox.” He dramatically pounded his chest as a demonstration of his manly vigor, but it would have been more effective in any costume other than his sweeping silk robe.

  We all had a chuckle at his mock bravado, and in fact he chorused in with his powerful, practiced laugh. Then silence filled the room.

  He asked, “Is there anything else? I really ought to put myself together.”

  “No…” Harley Kaiser hesitated. “We need to be going, actually. Miriam and I just wanted to welcome you to Dumont. Hope you’ll enjoy your stay.”

  Miriam echoed, “Welcome to Dumont, Mr. Cantrell.” Her inflection was flat and insincere, but that came as no surprise—she only showed signs of life when she had something to bleat about.

  Moving with them to the door, I turned to wish Carrol a good day, shaking his hand. As I did this, he pulled me gently toward him, asking, “Stay a minute?”

  So I remained while Kaiser and Miriam stepped through the door, clomped across the porch, and started down the stairs.

  Carrol edged toward a window to watch their progress, and when he was confident that they were well out of earshot, he turned to me, gushing, “I’m sorry, Mark. I’m mortified that you caught me like this.” His hands fluttered to rake his hair as he dashed across the room to close the magazines on the table, jogging them into several neat piles.

  I laughed, relieved to note that his previous behavior wasn’t really “him.” But I was still confused. “Why the act for Kaiser and Miriam?”

  Stepping to the bed, he whipped the sheets from the floor and tried, without much success, to make things more presentable. “I just didn’t like those two,” he explained. “Maybe it’s instinct. I wanted them to leave, and frankly, I don’t give a shit what they think of me.” Surveying the rumpled bedding, he growled with frustration. Then a thought lightened his tone. “Thank God—Grace said she’d pop up this afternoon and help me put things in order. She’s a dear.”

  “She really is,” I agreed. “But what did they want?”

  “You tell me.” Carrol flung his long arms in exasperation. “Did you catch that crack about the ACLU?”

  “As a matter of fact, I did. Kaiser’s got pornography on the brain lately, putting him at odds with most civil libertarians. Your…uh, reading material must have set him off.” I filled Carrol in on the background of Miriam’s feminist antiporn campaign, the county ordinance, and the DA’s imminent must-win obscenity case.

  Carrol reacted, “Now why doesn’t any of this surprise me?”

  Indeed. I was tempted to ask if Doug Pierce had told him about it, but he’d surely suspect my ulterior, voyeuristic motive for asking, so I let the comment pass.

  Frenetically working his way around the bed, smoothing a quilted comforter over the sheets, he arrived at the nightstand and fluffed the errant pillow back into position on the bed, fully revealing the still-gooey tube of K-Y. He tisked apologetically while opening the drawer of the night table, dropping in the lube, and sliding it shut. On top of the night table, along with a disheveled pile of papers, I now noticed Carrol’s fat fountain pen, the ugly one I’d seen in his pocket on Thursday morning.

  Gathering up the papers and scurrying to the writing desk, he piled them atop the rest of the clutter while asking, “And what brought you to see me this morning?” There was a lilt to his question that begged a salacious answer.

  “Actually,” I confessed, “I wondered what Kaiser and Miriam were up to, so I tagged along, telling them I was working up another story about you. Truth is, Glee Savage would like to interview you again—we had a visit from your old friend Bruno yesterday, and—well, I’m getting ahead of myself. Could Glee and I spend a bit of time with you, possibly tomorrow morning?”

  “Sure, Mark, happy to oblige—the more press the better. I’d planned to look in on the hubbub at Grace’s shop, so let’s meet there.”

  “Great.” I took out my pen and pad, suggesting, “Nine or ten o’clock?”

  He beaded me with a get-real stare. Grinning, he reminded me, “Tonight is Saturday, Mark. Let’s make it eleven tomorrow.”

  “Done,” I said, making note of it.

  “And now,” he said, playfully shooing me toward the door, “I really must do something about this”—he whisked a hand from head to toe, implying that he needed a complete makeover, which in fact he did.

  “Thanks, Carrol.” I opened the screen door to let myself out. “See you tomorrow at The Nook.”

  “Tomorrow,” he echoed, waltzing off to the bath, stooping en route to retrieve a towel from the floor. Then he swung the bathroom door shut behind him.

  Stepping out to the porch, I laughed quietly at the scene that had just transpired, then paused. Something was troubling me. Something seemed amiss, but what? So I poked my head back into the room, hoping the sight would nudge my thinking. And I saw it—Carrol’s fat pen.

  During his brief, obsessive burst of housekeeping, he’d moved a pile of papers from the bed to the desk, but left his ugly pen on the nightstand.

  Logically, didn’t the pen belong with the papers on the desk?

  Or was it now I who was being obsessive?

  Closing the door and crossing the porch, I started down the stairs. A frown pinched my mouth. The riddle of the pen was nothing, surely. A larger riddle still perplexed me. An unanswered question still loomed over the cool morning.

  What the hell were Harley Kaiser and Miriam Westerman up to?

  Sunday, September 17

  SUNDAY MORNING, I LEFT the house on Prairie Street and drove along the park, headed toward downtown. Crossing the succession of side streets, including Grace Lord’s, I continued past Vincennes and Wisconsin, slowing the car as I approached the intersection of Third Avenue, where Glee Savage lived in a solid, old red-brick apartment building at the edge of Dumont’s business district. She was standing at the corner, dressed in her stylish best, replete with hat, gloves, and one of her oversize purses. One might have assumed she was dolled up for church, but she wasn’t, of course—she was waiting for me.

  I circled under her building’s portico, lowering the passenger window to blow her a wolf whistle. She strode toward the car, heels pecking the sidewalk, looking absolutely vibrant—nothing pleased her more than a juicy assignment, and she was raring to probe the feud that was set to blow up between Carrol Cantrell and Bruno Hérisson. I unbuckled my seat belt, intending to help her into the car, but she was too quick, hopping in next to me before I got my door open.

  “This ought to be good,” she told me, checking her purse for her notebook. Satisfied that she was fully equipped, she closed the bag with a decisive snap.

  I agreed, “There’s a story here, all right, but there may be more to it than petty rivalry within the mini world. My impromptu visit with Carrol yesterday raised more questions than it answered. You should do the talking today, but I may make a few notes of my own.” I had already discussed this with Glee by phone on Saturday afternoon, but I continued to review our plans as I drove back up Park Street, crossing Wisconsin and Vincennes.

  “Hey, boss,” Glee interrupted me, with a facetious grin, “don’t miss our turn.”

  I had nearly blown through the intersection on Thursday morning, but by now I was well trained in finding Grace Lord’s shop, executing a smooth, flawless turn. A few blocks ahead lay The Nook and the adjacent former drugstore. The scene was much as it had been the day before, with cars and vans parked on either side of the street, people in windbreakers milling near the buildings. I drove past the shops, parking beyond them, near the house. Check
ing my watch, I told Glee, “It’s not quite eleven, and I got the impression Carrol wouldn’t be early.”

  “Let’s go in anyway,” she suggested. “Maybe we can get a feel for the exhibits.”

  So we got out of the car. Standing on the street, I opened the back door and retrieved the blazer I’d laid on the seat, checking its pockets for my notebook and pen. Locking the car, I was glad to have the jacket—the cool morning had clouded over and turned cold.

  Shrugging into my coat, I fastened a single button while stepping to the curb to escort Glee to the sidewalk. I reminded her, “You’re the boss today. Do you intend to reveal to Carrol that Bruno plans to open a competing gallery in Los Angeles?”

  She thought for a moment, walking next to me as we ambled toward The Nook. “That depends. Mainly, I just want to get the background of their rivalry from his point of view. There are two sides to every dispute. But if the interview shifts in the right direction—who knows?—I just may break the news to Carrol. After all, Bruno all but invited me to do the dirty work for him.”

  Reaching the front door of the shop, we sidled in through the crowd, arriving in a cramped showroom where glass cases lined the walls from floor to ceiling, displaying all manner of dollhouse paraphernalia. It would have been interesting to browse a bit, but the space was simply too jammed. Surveying the tops of heads, I could tell at once that Carrol had not yet arrived—there was no one that tall. So I asked a woman with a clipboard, “Is Grace Lord around?”

  “I saw her in the hall.” She pointed to a doorway at the back of the shop.

  Edging through the crush of bodies, Glee and I arrived at the doorway and discovered that it connected to the Rexall store, which the woman had called the “hall.” The description was apt, at least in comparison to the claustrophobic confines of The Nook—the interior of the drugstore, long denuded of its shelving, showcases, and other fixtures, seemed cavernous. Though a good number of people were busy transforming the vacant store into the temporary headquarters of the Midwest Miniatures Society, the room did not feel overcrowded, and the buzz of activity was restrained and focused. The yawning space was brightly lit by the windows on the front wall and by banks of fluorescent tubes that hummed overhead. The floor had been taped off into rows that were subdivided into exhibit spaces, labeled by number.