Name Games

by Michael Craft

  Most of the area was occupied by vendors, setting up their wares on folding tables, many with backdrop signage extolling some special expertise: LILLIPUT LAMP SHOP; TEENY TINY TRIM FACTORY; BITSY BOOKS & BAUBLES. A smaller area at one end of the space would be devoted to workshops, where would-be artisans could learn some hands-on tips from the pros: CURTAIN FOLDING; CARPENTRY TECHNIQUES; FAUX FINISHES. At the opposite end of the hall was the competition area, where several entrants already fussed with their roomboxes, unpacking the delicate furnishings, touching up details with slim sable brushes, checking thread-size electrical connections for pea-size lights. Mingling among these contestants was Grace Lord, hostess of the entire proceedings. Her short stature and sprightly manner seemed perfectly at home in the little world that surrounded her.

  Glee had donned her reading glasses, perching them low on her nose to scrutinize a display of intricate floral arrangements, none of them more than an inch high. She gasped at the meticulous workmanship, noting the exhibit number.

  I tapped her shoulder, directing her gaze toward the competition area. “There’s Grace. She’s had Carrol in her coach house for three days now—maybe she can share a few reactions before he arrives.” Glancing at my watch, I noted that it was just past eleven. I’d been correct in my hunch that Carrol wouldn’t be prompt.

  Glee peered over her glasses at Grace. Slyly she agreed, “Let’s talk to her.”

  Moving through the aisle together, stepping over boxes and packing material, we approached Grace, who was now busily at work on something, from behind. “Morning, Grace,” I called to her. “Got a moment to meet the press?”

  She turned to us with a wide grin. “Of course, Mark. Good morning, Glee. Welcome, both of you.” And she strode toward us to shake our hands. With that endearing self-disparaging laugh, she told us, “You’ve managed to catch me at my worst again, looking like hell.” She wore jeans, a shirt, and comfortable old shoes, dressed for work—she looked just fine.

  Glee assured her, “It’s Sunday and you’re busy—no need to put on airs for us,” which was an odd comment coming from my features editor, who looked as if she’d stepped straight off the fashion page.

  Dropping the topic of clothes, Grace told us, a touch of excitement coloring her words, “I’m glad you popped in. It’s not quite finished, but if you’d care to see it, I’d be happy to give you a sneak peek.” She winked.

  Since my thoughts had been occupied by Carrol Cantrell, I wasn’t quite prepared for this offer. In fact, I couldn’t imagine what she was referring to.

  Reading my confused expression, she explained, “My roombox. Lord’s Rexall.”

  “Oh, of course.” I smiled, truly eager to see it.

  Glee echoed my sentiments, “We’d be honored, Grace. I wish we’d brought a photographer.”

  “This is just a preview,” she reminded us. “No pictures yet, please.” Then she waved an arm in the direction of a row of room-boxes, all arranged at eye height. Some were covered, some were being worked on, some lit, others dark—all in various stages of completion. She directed us to one of the larger shadow boxes, partially obscured with a cloth. Unveiling it, she intoned a simple fanfare: “Tuh-daaah!”

  Glee and I stepped forward to peer into the miniature drugstore, gratifying Grace with an initial reaction of oohs and aahs. It was eerie to note that we actually stood in the same space that was being depicted. Though the passing of years and the abandonment of the business had greatly changed the appearance of the interior, the two structures were clearly identical, except, of course, for their scale. The proportions of the space, the placement and detail of architectural features such as doors, windows, and remaining cabinetry—all was exacting.

  But Grace’s project went well beyond the slavish reproduction of an empty room. To the contrary, she had created a tiny space chock-full with the products and fixtures and icons of midwest America in an earlier generation. Though inanimate, the scene bristled with life. The soda fountain stood ready to serve an onslaught of kids, yet to arrive from school. The prescription counter was stocked with its cryptic inventory, its pharmacist having stepped away for a moment, perhaps to place a four-digit phone call to some local doctor—just double-checking. The aisles of the store brimmed with an assortment of tonics and salves, brushes and hairpins, seltzers and bromides, douches and laxatives, candies and One A Days, greeting cards and pocket novels. No condoms though—you had to ask.

  Glee and I fired a series of bemused questions, amazed that Grace had been able to accomplish this theatrical deception so convincingly in her first roombox. With cheer and supreme patience, she answered all our queries, telling us about the hundreds of hours she’d spent at her worktable piecing together this testament to the Lord family’s past, checking each step against store records, old photos, and the scrutiny of her own memory. She proudly pointed out the miniature portraits of her father and grandfather hanging behind the cash register. “I once planned to add my own mug to that lineup,” she told us with a pensive sigh, “but it wasn’t meant to be.”

  The nostalgic moment passed, and I still had plenty of questions left regarding technique. “What about all this…stuff? I mean, how did you get the little printed labels for everything? Did you actually make all of it?”

  “Heavens no,” she gasped. “There are various sources for furnishing just about any miniatures project you could dream up. I built the room itself, but the inventory of commercial products was bought wherever I could find it—that’s quite a specialty, as you can imagine.”

  Glee asked, “How did you track it all down?”

  “Through various magazines and catalogs. There’s a lot out there, especially at some of the regional shows. But the real godsend has been the Internet. Just hop on the Net, and you can find nearly anything, regardless of how specialized.”

  I had to remind myself that Grace was sixty-four. Many people of that age have never gotten friendly with computers, some out of fear, others for lack of opportunity. I admired Grace for making the leap—it fit her rambunctious personality, and I liked her all the more for it.

  We continued to gab about Grace’s drugstore project, Glee taking copious notes. I could tell that she’d decided to spin a full-blown feature out of this, and I was eager to see what she’d do with it. When at last we’d exhausted the topic, Grace offered, “Can I give you a guided tour of some of the other entries?”

  “By all means,” Glee answered, enthused.

  Tapping my watch, I laughed while reminding her, “We were supposed to see Carrol Cantrell. But it’s nearly eleven-thirty—he’s late.”

  “My God,” said Glee, hand to her mouth, “I’d forgotten.”

  “I noticed,” I told her wryly. Turning to Grace, I said, “Your distinguished visitor planned to meet us here at eleven. Was he up and about this morning?”

  “Not that I noticed. But that’s not unusual. He’s not the ‘early to bed, early to rise’ type.” She chuckled at the understatement.

  I related a bit of my previous morning’s visit, how I’d found both him and his quarters in need of a serious makeover.

  Grace rolled her eyes. “I have no idea what sort of shape he’s in right now, but his room ought to be more presentable—I helped him tidy up yesterday.”

  “He mentioned that you’d offered to help. That was most kind of you.” I hoped to God that Carrol had had sense enough to put away his porn collection. It was a perverse stroke of luck that he had managed to shock Kaiser and Miriam with it, but Grace Lord deserved more considerate treatment.

  She suggested, “Shall we walk over and see if he’s in?”

  “Yes, let’s.”

  So we filed back through the exhibit hall, headed for the connecting doorway to The Nook. But Grace made a sharp turn toward the rear of the building, telling us, “The shop’s too crowded. Let’s sneak out the back.” And she opened an obscure door that led directly to the yard behind the shops and the house.

  We emerged onto a bri
ck walkway that I’d noticed Thursday morning, one of several that crisscrossed the backyard. During the past half hour, the weather had grown cloudier still, colder too. The wind had picked up, and robins sang for rain. Following Grace along the path toward the house, Glee struggled to control her big flat purse. I would have found this funny had I not been fighting the gusts myself, hunkering into my jacket, warming my hands in my pockets.

  Arriving at the porch of the house, Grace turned onto the path that led back to the garage. Glee and I followed, and within moments we were climbing the open stairway to the coach house. Under a threatening sky, the white building had paled to gray, the green banister looked almost black, and the potted geraniums flanking each step took on a hue of deep, velvety burgundy.

  Halfway up, at the turn of the landing, Grace stopped. “Well, I’ll be,” she said, plucking from the banister a silk scarf snagged there on a splinter. Glee and I backed up behind her on the landing as she held up the scarf, examining it as it snapped in the wind. Lushly patterned in gold with a small repetitive design, its center area was badly wrinkled, as if it had been knotted. Glee and I glanced at each other, silently sharing our assessment—it looked for all the world like Bruno’s cravat.

  But Grace thought otherwise. With a laugh, she wadded the scarf into a pocket, telling us, “Carrol certainly needs a lot of picking up after. Looks like he stumbled in late last night.”

  I asked, “That’s his scarf?”

  “I assume so. I cleaned his room yesterday, and he’s quite the clotheshorse. He has lots of silk scarves.”

  She should know, I told myself. But even so, the scarf in her pocket looked exactly like the one I’d seen twice around Bruno’s neck. Had he been here?

  As I spun these thoughts, my gaze left my companions huddled there on the landing and drifted out to the expansive lawn, where the wind rushed in waves across the thick grass. The ripples led my eye to the far end of the lawn, to a tree that drooped protectively over a small stone obelisk. Once again, the pointed obelisk snagged my thoughts as securely as the splintered banister had snagged that silk scarf.

  “It’s cold out here,” said Glee, urging me to get moving.

  Grace added, under her breath, “Let’s go see if his majesty is receiving.”

  I laughed at her comment, hoping to lighten my mood, but I couldn’t shake the morbid thoughts inspired by the sight of that unassuming garden ornament—it looked like a tombstone. It was time, I decided, to lay the issue to rest (even my thoughts were cluttered with funereal euphemisms). No longer laughing, but still forcing a smile, I said, “Just a second, Grace. That obelisk over there.” I pointed to it. “I first noticed it yesterday, and I got the crazy feeling that—”

  “That’s Rascal’s grave,” she interrupted matter-of-factly.

  Huh? Who? My mind spun with the realization that although my premonition may have been irrational, it was nonetheless well-founded.

  “The dog,” she explained.

  Of course. I remembered aloud, “The collie in the photo with your nephew.”

  She nodded. “The very same. He meant a lot to all of us. When he passed on, we didn’t have the heart to just…to just throw him away.” She smiled sheepishly, as if we might fault the sentiments that inspired so lavish a tribute to a lost pet.

  I rested a hand on her shoulder, a gesture intended both to assure her that I understood and to offer much belated condolences on the loss of the dog. “I’m sorry,” I told her. “I shouldn’t have pried.”

  “Oh, posh.” She smiled. “No harm in sharing another tidbit of Lord family history—though I wouldn’t be surprised if you suspected we’re all nuts.” Her smile widened as she laughed.

  “Hardly,” I said.

  Glee butted in, “It is getting cold out here—and we’re on assignment.” Both hands were now busy, battening down her hat as well as her purse.

  “Okay,” I conceded. “Onward.”

  Climbing the remaining stairs, I tried to focus on our imminent meeting with Carrol Cantrell, but the subject of Grace’s nephew had been raised, and once again, I couldn’t get the kid out of my mind. Ward Lord—I now knew the fate of his dog, but what of the golden child himself? My only glimpse of him had been snapped untold years ago as he leapt into manhood, flexing his whole body while launching a Frisbee that was captured on film as a gray blur in the sky. Where was he now? Was there a tactful way to find out? More important, why did I care? Did I want to call him, meet him? Then what?

  “My God!” hollered Glee from the top of the stairs as the wind caught her hat.

  “I’ve got it,” Grace told her, grabbing the hat from midair—conjuring a brief, bizarre image that morphed her into her nephew with the Frisbee.

  Clearly, it was time to get indoors. I stepped ahead of them, crossing the porch to the door. I could see through the screen door that the inner door was open, so it was a safe bet that Carrol was indeed within. But why would the door be open? The weather that morning was far from pleasant. I rapped, calling, “Carrol?”

  “Oh no!” cried Glee. This time it was her purse, snatched from her hand by a powerful gust that sent it sliding across the porch—sideswiping some half dozen geraniums, which tumbled over the edge. As the pots crashed in succession on the ground below, Glee scrambled to retrieve her purse.

  I cracked the screen door open, telling Carrol with an uncertain laugh, “We’d really like to come in.” But there was no answer.

  So I opened the door wider and looked inside. Gasping at the sight of someone sprawled across the bed, I turned to tell Glee and Grace, “Wait here.”

  Entering the room, I rushed to the bed—it was Carrol. Dressed as on the day before in his long bathrobe, he had collapsed near the corner of the bed, as if he’d stumbled there and fallen. The robe was askew, exposing much of his body. His skin had the bluish tinge of suffocation, and his neck was ringed with purple abrasions, suggesting strangulation.

  “What’s wrong, Mark?” the ladies called from the porch. “What happened?”

  “Stay there,” I warned, hoping to spare them the sight of the apparent murder while trying to analyze what I could of the scene. Although Carrol had obviously met a violent end, there were no signs of struggle, and there was no suggestion of forced entry. The room itself, compared to the previous morning, was immaculate and tidy—no burglary or ransacking. The bed, though slept in, was generally neat, and there was no clutter on the nightstand—no papers, no K-Y, no big ugly pen. His laptop, with its screen folded shut, was still on the dining table. A few orderly piles of paperwork were stacked nearby—no porn magazines. Also on the table was a partially eaten cake, not pretty enough to be store-bought.

  By now, of course, Glee and Grace had braved their way into the room. Both proved themselves tougher than I’d have guessed, forgoing the indulgence of shrieks or sobs or hightailing out the door and down the stairs.

  Glee stepped boldly forward, surveying the corpse in silence. Carrol’s genitals were exposed, and Glee’s eyes popped—after all, the guy was six foot four. Shame on you, Glee.

  More timidly, Grace approached the body on the bed. “Is he…?”

  “Yes,” I answered. Given the circumstances, I could not resist adding a wry proclamation:

  “The king is dead.”

  PART THREE

  Fingers of Suspicion

  CARROL CANTRELL SLAIN

  ‘King of miniatures’ found strangled at Lord residence

  by CHARLES OAKLAND

  Staff Reporter, Dumont Daily Register

  SEPT. 18, DUMONT WI—CARROL CANTRELL, WIDELY RECOGNIZED AS THE WORLD’S REIGNING “KING OF MINIATURES,” WAS FOUND DEAD SUNDAY MORNING IN HIS GUEST QUARTERS BEHIND THE GRACE LORD RESIDENCE ON DUMONT’S QUIET NORTH SIDE. VICTIM OF AN APPARENT STRANGULATION, CANTRELL (50) HAD ARRIVED IN TOWN FROM LOS ANGELES ON THURSDAY, PLANNING TO SERVE AS CELEBRITY JUDGE OF A ROOMBOX COMPETITION TO BE HELD IN CONJUNCTION WITH A CONVENTION OF THE MIDWEST MINIATURES SOCIETY.

  Sheriff
Douglas Pierce was first to arrive on the murder scene after the body was discovered by two Register staffers, escorted there by Grace Lord. Pierce estimates that the death occurred sometime between dawn and 10 A.M. yesterday. He added, “A complete postmortem will be performed, allowing us to pinpoint the exact time and cause of death.”

  Pierce has pledged the total resources of his department toward solving the crime. “Murder is murder,” he stated, “but this instance is particularly heinous in that it victimized a distinguished visitor to our city. Justice will be served.”

  As of late Sunday, detectives assigned to the case had interviewed dozens of locals who had interacted with Cantrell since his arrival. A list of possible suspects was being compiled, but no arrest had yet been made.

  Knowledge of Cantrell’s past is currently sketchy. Though outwardly flamboyant, he held his business matters private, and little is known of his finances, except that he appeared highly successful. It is hoped that a probate investigation will clarify whether a motive for murder may reach beyond Dumont.

  Grace Lord, who invited Cantrell to Dumont and hosted his brief stay here, mourned the loss of a figure known simply as Carrol to miniatures enthusiasts everywhere. She told a reporter at the scene, “Our little world will never be the same.”

  Monday, September 18