Name Games

by Michael Craft

  Roxanne rapped on the glass wall, and I waved her in. Opening the door, she apologized, “Didn’t mean to interrupt. This looks important.”

  Rising, I checked my watch. “God, it’s past noon. We ran late.” Stepping to her, I offered a kiss. Her lips met mine, but not fully; the side of my mouth touched the opposite side of hers. I told her, “You’re looking great, as usual, even after a four-hour drive.”

  Roxanne had always struck me as the most stylish woman I knew—not stylish in the hyperconscious “fashion” sense epitomized by Glee Savage, but stylish in the “personal” sense—she always seemed to know precisely what to wear, always understated, always quietly glamorous. That day in my office, she wore a handsome gray flannel business suit (Donna Karan, if my eye can be trusted) with a tight skirt that dropped to midcalf, slit up past the knee. For color, she wore knotted around her neck a gold-hued silk scarf that bore an uncanny resemblance to Bruno’s cravat. I couldn’t imagine how she’d managed to arrive looking so fresh and unrumpled, ready to do her law thing.

  In response to my flattery, she rolled her eyes as if she didn’t believe me. That too had always struck me about Roxanne: even at thirty-seven, approaching the maturity of middle age, she didn’t quite understand that her beauty was more than physical. She was smart, pleasantly aggressive, and at times truly loving. But she also honed a cynical edge that both marked her humor and marred her ability to “connect.” Not that she lacked confidence (just watch her in a courtroom); she’d simply never been adept at accepting compliments.

  There was no need for introductions, as everyone in the room was already well acquainted, so our opening lines of small talk focused on the weather, the long drive, the quickening pace of life as the transition from summer to autumn unfolded that week. But Roxanne soon brought the conversation down to business—not her legal dealings with Quatro Press, but the murder story that was the topic of the meeting she had interrupted. “Well now,” she said, “it seems that sleepy little Dumont is in the news again. I hate to point this out, Mark, but the crime rate has taken a decided turn for the worse since your arrival here.”

  Though her comment had a morbid ring, it was nonetheless funny, eliciting a good laugh from Glee, Lucy, and me. I asked Roxanne, “You’ve heard all about it?”

  She sat, lolling. “It wasn’t exactly front-page news in Chicago, but the strangulation of the ‘king of miniatures’ made an irresistible headline—as I’m sure you can appreciate.” She smirked.

  I sat, joining the rest of them around the low table. “Doug Pierce really has his hands full with this. Murder is serious enough in its own right, but the timing makes this case doubly urgent—he’s up for reelection.”

  “Doug can handle it,” Roxanne said flatly. She’d come to know Pierce shortly after my move to Dumont, when he’d befriended me during an ugly incident that sullied my arrival. “He’s an able sheriff and a good detective—at least in my book.” And that said a lot. If Roxanne had harbored any doubts about the man, she’d not have hesitated to voice them. Pressing on, she asked succinctly, “Any suspects?”

  “Just one—”

  “Mark,” Glee interrupted me, “this is basically where Lucille and I left off. If you don’t mind, I’d like to get hopping on that sidebar.” She gathered her notes.

  “Oh. Sure. Fine, gals. Roxanne has an appointment after lunch, so we should be on our way. I’ll fill her in at the Grill.”

  Glee was already on her feet, chomping to get to her desk. She extended her hand to Roxanne, exchanged a lady-shake, and excused herself from the room.

  Lucy took a little longer leaving. She knew that Glee was right—there was plenty of work to be done—but even so, now that Roxanne had arrived, she’d have liked to hang around. I briefly considered inviting Lucy to lunch with us, but she did have a deadline, and besides, Roxanne and I would enjoy being alone. So I waited while Lucy rose, checking her clipboard once more. She told me, “I’ll get writers assigned to these other two stories—we need someone at the sheriff’s department, and another at the morgue.”

  “Great. Let’s put our heads together later this afternoon.”

  “Miss Exner,” Lucy said, “nice to see you again.” She was obviously flummoxed, addressing Roxanne by her last name.

  “My pleasure, Miss Haring.” Roxanne offered a smile with a farewell nod.

  Lucy literally backed out of my office, as if to prolong sharing Roxanne’s space before disappearing into the newsroom. I had rarely, if ever, witnessed scatterbrained behavior from her—she was normally, in fact unerringly, a model of military precision. So I told Roxanne, who was accustomed to giving gibes, not receiving them, “I think she likes you.”

  “I know she likes me.” Coyly she added, “But she’s not my type.”

  “Hungry?”

  “Starved—I got an early start this morning.”

  So we got up to leave the office. I noticed that Roxanne hadn’t carried an umbrella; assuming the weather was now dry, I didn’t bother to grab my coat. We zigzagged through the newsroom together and descended the front stairs, arriving in the Register’s lobby. I told Connie, our receptionist, who resembled a bank teller perched behind a window there, “We’re on our way to the First Avenue Grill. I’ll be back in an hour or so.”

  “Enjoy your lunch, Mr. Manning.”

  Out on First Avenue, people and cars rushed to lunch or errands, lending Dumont’s main drag a hint of urban buzz. It was a far cry from Michigan Avenue, the swank Chicago boulevard that I had walked every day when I worked at the Journal, but this quieter streetscape had its own allure—no belching buses, no drug-crazed cabbies, no wailing sirens.

  The sky was doing its noontide best to brighten, but a thick layer of clouds reduced the sun to a white glow in the damp, gray air. That morning’s drizzle had spent itself—the trees and awnings had stopped dripping—so we strolled the block or so toward the restaurant, talking, poking along while others hustled past.

  Roxanne revived the topic of the murder, asking, “You said there’s a suspect?”

  “Right—Bruno. He’s all we’ve got right now.”

  She broke stride briefly. “Bruno?” she asked, finding the name unusual.

  “He’s French, a rival of the victim’s, a big name in miniatures, and quite a character. Our best theory is that Bruno strangled Carrol with his own silk scarf.”

  Roxanne looked confused. “Whose silk scarf—Bruno’s or Carrol’s?”

  “Bruno’s. He wore it all the time, up till the murder. In fact, it looked a lot like yours.” I fingered the gold-toned scarf that hung over her shoulder.

  She stopped there on the sidewalk and unfurled the long end of her scarf, displaying it for me. “I find that unlikely. This is Hermès. It’s for women.”

  “He is French,” I glibly reminded her. But even as I spoke, I noticed that her scarf, held open for me, was patterned with an irregular design of big horse bridles, saddle buckles, and other equestrian motifs, all in a jumbled palette of yellows, browns, and golds. From a distance, wrinkled, it had looked just like Bruno’s cravat. Up close, though, it bore no resemblance to the scarf found snagged on the banister—that scarf was patterned with a smaller, repeating design, like wallpaper.

  “You’re right,” I conceded, smoothing the Hermès scarf over her shoulder again, “this isn’t the same as Bruno’s.” Draping my arm (as well as the scarf) across her shoulder, I guided her onward.

  Continuing our walk, she slid her arm around my waist; any passerby would have assumed we were romantically involved. There was a time, of course, when we were so involved, but our lives had changed profoundly since then, and we now contented ourselves to share a loving friendship that had survived even intimacy.

  “Bruno…,” she thought aloud. “Can’t say I’ve heard of him, but then, I’d never heard of Carrol Cantrell either.”

  I explained, “Bruno is his first name. I usually mangle the rest of it—Hérisson.”

  “Harrison?�
� she asked. (I had mangled it again.) “Sounds English, not French.”

  I gave it another try: “Hérisson.” Then, just to make sure, I spelled it for her.

  “Ah,” she said, affecting a comic, throaty accent, “but of course—Hérisson,” pronouncing it masterfully. Her features paused in thought for a moment, then she laughed, dropping her hand from my waist.

  I turned to her. “What’s so funny?”

  “Hérisson,” she repeated the name. “If my college French serves me correctly—I’d need to check the Larousse, but I’m almost certain—hérisson means ‘hedgehog.’” She laughed again.

  I joined in laughter at the image she’d conjured—a roly-poly Bruno in cravat and beret, covered head to toe with quills. I asked her rhetorically, “How do people come up with this stuff?”

  She waved an arm in a theatrical flourish, posing a rhetorical question of her own, courtesy of Shakespeare: “‘What’s in a name?’”

  Mirroring her flourish, I declaimed, “‘That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.’”

  A few people actually stopped to watch us, one lady breaking into applause. To my way of thinking, our brief performance wasn’t all that good, but so as not to disappoint our little audience, we offered a series of elaborate bows to our onlookers and to each other. Our parody of star-crossed tragedy soon degenerated into a genre more akin to slapstick, and we moved on.

  Nearing the end of the block, we paused at the intersection, waiting for traffic. The corner storefront, I noticed, was vacant—one of several along the way—and I couldn’t help musing that this one would make an attractive office for Neil. I didn’t know what the store had been, as it was empty when I’d arrived in Dumont and its signage was removed. But the facade was tastefully subdued, and it didn’t take a lot of creative vision to see that it could easily be adapted to the needs of an architect who would, perhaps eventually, retain a small staff.

  In my mind’s eye, a sign already hung from the eaves near the door: NEIL M. WAITE. AIA.

  “Hey, Mark,” said Roxanne with a nudge, “it doesn’t get any greener.” She was referring to the traffic light, which had turned. I hadn’t been paying attention, and other pedestrians now streamed around us, casting annoyed glances.

  So I shrugged an apology, locked my arm through hers, and proceeded into the crosswalk. Our destination, First Avenue Grill, was still a half block ahead, and my mind was still occupied by the possibility, however remote, that Neil could be persuaded to move his practice from Chicago. The WALK light changed, flashing amber, as we stepped onto the opposite curb. On the corner was a tavern; in its windows were neon signs extolling various brews, flashing out of sync with the traffic light. This visual noise would not normally make a dent in my thoughts, but one of the signs flickered nervously, tugging for my attention: MILLER BEER.

  I snapped my fingers. “Miller,” I said, waltzing Roxanne under the awning to the window where the feeblish neon blinked and quavered.

  She shook her head, tisking. “It didn’t take long for Wisconsin to cast its spell. You used to be a vodka man. What’s next—bratwurst?”

  “No, listen, I forgot about this. A couple of days ago, I overheard part of a phone conversation—and a reference to the ‘Miller standard.’ I didn’t know what was meant by this, but I was left with the impression that it might be a legal term. Have you ever heard of the ‘Miller standard’?”

  “Of course.” She paused as if I were an idiot.

  “I’m not a lawyer,” I reminded her. “So—what is it?”

  Clearing her throat, she lectured, “The Miller standard was established by a 1973 Supreme Court ruling in the case of Miller v. California. It partly defined obscenity as material that appeals to a prurient interest in sex. The Miller standard has not been significantly reduced over the years, and to this day, it remains the darling of book burners, the bane of free-speech advocates.”

  Enlightened by this bit of information and stunned by its implications, I asked, “Would the Miller standard have any bearing on the obscenity trial that’s looming in Dumont County?”

  “You betcha.” Then a puzzled look crossed Roxanne’s face. “Who was talking about this?”

  “Carrol Cantrell, king of miniatures.”

  “Slain king of miniatures,” she corrected me.

  Arriving at the Grill, we found the place crowded—in fact, full. Generally regarded as Dumont’s best restaurant, it attracted a loyal clientele of business people at lunch, including me. Shortly after I’d arrived at the Register, the Grill had extended to me a standing noon reservation at my favorite table, held for me until twelve-fifteen. Today, having lost track of time during my meeting at the office, I was late.

  The hostess rushed to greet me at the door. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Manning. We assumed you weren’t coming.” It was twenty past the hour.

  “That’s okay,” I assured her, “I should have phoned.”

  She glanced about, wringing her hands. “The kitchen’s running slow today, so there won’t be a table for at least twenty minutes.” She repeated, “I’m so sorry.”

  As Roxanne had commitments, we couldn’t afford to dawdle, but still, we’d save no time by walking back to my car and driving somewhere else. So I told the hostess, “We’ll wait. Maybe we could look at menus and order before we sit down.”

  “Certainly, sir. May I bring you and the lady something from the bar?” There was no actual bar with stools, but they served liquor at the tables.

  I asked Roxanne, “Would you like something?”

  “Just mineral water, thanks.”

  The hostess nodded. “And you, sir—Lillet?”

  I didn’t realize till then that the soft-tasting, blond-colored aperitif had become my “usual” at lunch (I still saved the vodka ritual for evening). The week I moved to Dumont, I was surprised to discover that Lillet was available at this modest (by city standards) storefront restaurant. One evening, at table with Barret Logan, the Register’s founding publisher, I noticed that he ordered it. Assuming that it had been stocked at his request, I thought it fitting to continue the tradition—after all, I was assuming his position at the paper. More often than not, then, if I drank at lunch, I ordered Lillet. Curiously, though my tongue often tripped on French words, it had no problem whatever with Lillet (lee-lay).

  Today, though, in deference to Roxanne, I thought it best to nix the booze. Roxanne had managed to kick a drinking problem three years earlier, around the time she introduced me to Neil. While the early phases of withdrawal were surely rough for her, she had since shown no difficulty with social situations involving liquor. Indeed, she routinely insisted, “Do enjoy yourself; don’t mind me,” finding it condescending if others abstained on her account.

  Still, I didn’t want to be the one to tempt her, and I certainly didn’t need a drink. I told the hostess, “Mineral water sounds good—La Croix is fine.” I smiled without enthusiasm.

  “Mark!” a familiar voice interrupted these weighty deliberations. It was Sheriff Pierce, approaching us from a table, napkin in hand, as the hostess retreated into the crowded room.

  “Hi, Doug,” I told him. “You remember Roxanne Exner, from Chicago.”

  “How could I forget?” he queried graciously, shaking her hand. I noticed her eyes widen as he continued, “What brings you back to Dumont—Quatro business, or our latest manhunt?” His tone was light and amiable, surprisingly so, in light of the pressures of the murder investigation.

  “The former,” she answered, practically cooing, “which I assure you is considerably less interesting than the latter.” Then she added with a chortle, “It seems you’ve got your hands full again, Doug.” Her manner was more than friendly, almost flirtatious. In a sense, I didn’t blame her—they were both attractive single professionals. Roxanne knew very well, though, that I had long harbored suspicions Pierce was gay. What I hadn’t yet told her was that I was now convinced Pierce had been sleeping with Carrol Cantrell.

/>   Determined to prevent Roxanne from getting any giddier, I made the insipid observation, “Quite a crowd today. Must be the weather.”

  Roxanne moaned, “Twenty minutes for a table…”

  Pierce’s head bobbed around the room, surveying the situation, then he turned back to ask, “Care to join us?”

  That might work, I thought. “Who’s with you?”

  “Harley Kaiser.” Pierce motioned to a table along the far wall, where the district attorney sat, finishing his salad. Another plate, presumably Pierce’s, had been abandoned. There were two vacant spots at the table, chairs tucked beneath. Pierce explained under his breath, “Harley’s not exactly my idea of a congenial lunch date, but this was his idea—said it was important. So far, though, nothing of substance, just routine shoptalk on the case. We’re well along with our meal, but if you’d like to join us, there are two empty chairs.”

  Though the prospect of lunch with Pierce was enticing, I did not want to share a table with Kaiser. I assumed Roxanne would also be averse to Pierce’s suggestion, as she’d had a previous, disagreeable encounter with the DA, judging him a “hot dog,” a slur that got back to him.

  “Maybe we should,” said Roxanne, tapping her watch. “Thanks, Doug.”

  Thanks, indeed. The lady had spoken, so the three of us wended our way through the packed room, sidling between tables like a stunted conga line.

  Kaiser rose when he saw Pierce returning to their table with Roxanne and me in tow. The look in his eye (a look of quizzical apprehension verging on panic) suggested that he’d had no idea Pierce would ask us to sit with them; it also suggested that he had no more taste for the idea than I did.

  Seemingly oblivious to all this interplay, Pierce casually announced to his lunch companion that Roxanne was rushed and we’d be sharing their table.

  “Very well,” said Kaiser with a smile so twisted, it must have hurt.