Name Games

by Michael Craft

  “Barret and I are products of different generations,” I reminded her.

  “Thank God,” she told me under her breath, in spite of the fact that her own age, fifty-two, nearly split the difference between Logan and me.

  “Truth is, keeping you on this story was common sense. One way or another, this all seems tied to the miniatures world, and that’s your area of expertise.”

  Glee had arranged with Grace Lord to do a follow-up story at The Nook that afternoon, assessing the impact of Carrol Cantrell’s death on the convention that would open on Saturday. When Glee invited me along for the interview, I gladly accepted, eager to get a firsthand impression of the situation. Now she told me, “Few publishers would take such an active interest in a story.”

  Pretending to weigh her comment gravely, I figured, “Maybe I should spend more time at my desk.”

  “Don’t you dare!”

  Laughing at this exchange, I noticed that Neil had arrived. Well acquainted with “my” table, he knew exactly where to find me and was already headed across the dining room in my direction. Glimpsing him now as if for the first time ever, I found him as attractive as on the evening three years prior when Roxanne had introduced us at a cocktail party she’d thrown in his honor.

  Does anyone really understand physical attraction? Sure, Neil was and still is an undeniably handsome man; anyone would say so. But in our case, the instant vibes were much deeper. It wasn’t just sex—I wasn’t even out yet. Nor was it just our intellectual mating, which was immediate and complete and extraordinary. I’ve never put much credence in the notion of love at first sight, but I can think of no other words to describe what brought us together.

  “Look who’s here,” I said to Glee, who sat with her back to the room.

  “Judging from your doe-eyed grin, I hope it’s Neil.”

  I didn’t need to answer, as he had just arrived at the table. Standing, I met him with a hug, a peck on the lips. I told him, “It’s great to see you during the workday, just like old times.” Back in Chicago, we often met for lunch. Those opportunities were rare in Dumont.

  He gently reminded me, “This setup was your idea.”

  Avoiding that, I told him, “I didn’t think you’d mind if Glee joined us today.”

  “Mind it? I love it. Hi, Glee.” And he bent to kiss her.

  “Hello, treasure. You look smashing, as always.”

  He answered, “You’re looking pretty hot yourself,” as we arranged ourselves around the table.

  Glee and Neil had struck up an instant friendship when they met shortly after I moved north last winter—in fact, it was New Year’s Eve, a dinner party at the house on Prairie Street. Neil (the big-city architect) and Glee (the small-town cultural authority) discovered common ground in their ability to discuss trends in art, decorating, fashion. Despite Neil’s being born nearly two decades later than Glee, they seemed to view each other as contemporaries—due, no doubt, to their mutual interest in the here and now. On matters of style, they shared a mind-set that was purely of the moment.

  A waitress arrived with our tea and Neil’s iced coffee. She also distributed menus, telling us, “You might want to consider our Tuesday special—chicken potpie with fresh-baked corn bread. It’s real good.” She winked, implying that she’d sampled it on many a Tuesday.

  I’d done so myself, and I had to admit, the Grill had redefined chicken potpie—it bore no resemblance to the frozen, seventeen-cent supermarket brand I’d subsisted on during college, when I’d rented my first apartment and learned to use the oven (that was in the Dark Ages, just before microwave ovens became standard household appliances).

  “Thanks,” I told the waitress. “We’ll need a few minutes to decide.”

  Mimicking an English matron, Glee quipped, “But we really mustn’t dally.”

  Laughing, I assured the waitress that we weren’t rushed, and she left.

  Neil watched this exchange quizzically. “I don’t get it,” he said, licking froth from the edge of his drink. “What’s the joke?”

  He already knew about the previous day’s discovery of the bogus extortion note, framing Pierce. So I brought him up-to-date, explaining, “We had a discussion at the office this morning, regarding the wording of the blackmail note. It referred to Doug and Carrol’s fling as a ‘dalliance,’ which we all found odd.”

  Neil considered this for a moment, then commented, “It is odd—hardly the expected vocabulary of a ruthless killer.”

  I added, “We had a promising hunch. It seemed that dalliance might be a common French word, but it’s not.”

  “It derives from dally,” said Glee, clarifying her earlier remark. “So Bruno’s off the hook—linguistically, at least.” She poured her tea, which had been steeping.

  “To my mind,” I told them, “he’s still the suspect with the clearest motive. Call it ‘professional rivalry’ if you will, but what it really boils down to is greed—money—which tops the list of classic murder motives.”

  “There was certainly a lot at stake,” Glee conceded, sipping.

  I told Neil, “Bruno said that Carrol was charging as much as fifteen thousand dollars for one of his—what’s it called, Glee?”

  She answered, speaking to Neil, “Bruno’s miniature cylinder-top desks are absolutely marvelous, and yes, they do fetch top dollar.”

  Neil’s eyes widened with interest—he and Glee were now on their own special turf. He asked, “Which period?”

  “Louis Quinze.”

  “Of course.” He rolled his eyes. “I’d love to see such a piece.”

  “He has them at The Nook. It’s an extraordinary exhibit.”

  I’d been squeezing lemon into my iced tea, stirring it, but I stopped with a thought, telling Neil, “Glee and I are going over to The Nook right after lunch. Why don’t you join us?”

  He considered. “Why not? I have a late-afternoon meeting back at Quatro, but otherwise my time’s my own. I’ll follow you in my own car.”

  “Where are you parked?”

  “Just up the block, near the Register.”

  Happy to know that I’d be spending some extra time with Neil that day, I opened my menu to ponder lunch. The others did likewise. I mentioned to Neil, “By the way…”

  He looked up from his menu. “Yes?”

  “I noticed a vacant storefront up the street, on the next corner.”

  “Oh? What about it?”

  “It’s nice. Handsome. Good location. I’ll point it out on the way to the car.”

  “What for?”

  I didn’t bother to answer, as he knew very well what I was thinking.

  With a grin, his gaze dropped again to the menu.

  After lunch, Glee, Neil, and I walked the block or two back to the Register’s First Avenue offices. Monday’s rainy weather had moved out, and the sunny afternoon had the dry, crisp feel of autumn. Along the way, we stopped at the intersection to wait for traffic, and I pointed out to Neil the vacant storefront on the opposite corner. He made some noncommittal remark, but I could tell from his long, intent gaze across the street that he liked the place despite his stated indifference. Standing at the stoplight, I studied Neil as he studied the building, hoping to glean from his features some clue as to whether he might actually consider moving his practice to Dumont.

  These ruminations were distracted, though, by the tavern that stood near us on the corner. The neon signs flashing in its windows, specifically the one flickering MILLER BEER, reminded me that I had overheard Carrol Cantrell speak of the legal standard by which obscenity is judged. Was it mere coincidence? Did it have any bearing on his murder? Was it linked to the blackmail note?

  The light changed, and I dismissed these thoughts as we crossed the street. Passing by the storefront, I noticed that Neil’s pace slowed and his head turned. Perhaps he could imagine, hanging near the door, the same tasteful, discreet sign that I had visualized.

  A few moments later, we reached Neil’s car, and he offered to
drive Glee to The Nook with him, saving her the trek to my car. I agreed to meet them.

  When I had pulled my own car from the Register’s reserved lot, turning onto First Avenue, I wondered whether the street scene in front of Grace Lord’s shop would be more active than it had been the previous afternoon, when Pierce met me there to disclose the discovery of the extortion note. Turning off Park Street, heading for The Nook, I found things to be equally quiet now—the only car in sight was Neil’s, parked at the curb near the shop. With the rainy spell ended, I also noticed that the trees lining the street were starting to turn golden. Right on cue, a few leaves dropped from high branches and fluttered earthward, a vanguard of the masses that would follow.

  Glee and Neil got out of his car, waiting for me on the sidewalk as I parked. They were chatting away about something (dishes, drapes, dresses—who knows?), obviously enjoying each other’s company. Leaving my car, crossing the street toward them, I asked, “Everyone ready for a round of hard-hitting journalism?” Saying this, I checked for my notebook and pen.

  “Do we have to?” whined Neil. “After that potpie, I’m ready for a nap.”

  Glee cast him a visual jab. “Come on, kiddo. These tiny interiors will goose your energy level.” And she slung an arm through his, marching him toward the entrance to The Nook. I followed, marveling at the apparent silliness of this expedition, but reminding myself that our mission couldn’t have been more serious—we were hunting a killer.

  Inside the shop, all was quiet, in stark contrast to the near pandemonium of the weekend. The taciturn lady with the clipboard hovered about, checking shelves for inventory. When she saw me, I didn’t need to ask about Grace Lord’s whereabouts—she simply jerked her head toward the back hall.

  Leading the others through the connecting door to the old drugstore, I explained to Neil, “Lord’s Rexall was never intended to serve as a convention hall, I’m sure, but the space is surprisingly well suited for the exhibition of miniatures. Just look at this”—and I waved my arm as we entered the main room, a gesture that encompassed the aisles of exhibits, the workshop areas, the gallery for the roombox competition.

  Clearly, Neil hadn’t anticipated such an expansive display of wares. His eyes bugged at the sight of it, unable to take it all in—the kid in a candy shop.

  “Ma-aark,” a voice singsonged. It was Grace Lord. “Over here.”

  We turned and saw Grace waving us toward the competition area at the far end of the hall. Walking the main aisle in her direction, I noticed no one else in the room. I called to her, “You haven’t been abandoned, have you?”

  “Hardly,” she said with a laugh as we approached. “The others will be back later in the week for final preparations before opening. Everything’s in pretty good shape already.”

  Glee asked, “Are you putting the finishing touches on your roombox?”

  “Exactly,” she answered as she began ushering us toward her miniature Rexall, but then she stopped. Eyeing Neil, she said, “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

  “Sorry,” I told both of them. “Grace, this is Neil Waite. We lived together in Chicago, and now Neil’s spending some time in Dumont while he’s working on the plant expansion out at Quatro Press—he’s an architect, and a budding miniatures fan, I suspect.”

  With a beaming smile, Grace extended her hand, telling him, “Welcome to ‘our little world,’ Neil. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  “Thank you, Grace. The pleasure’s mine.”

  Grace greeted Glee as well, commenting, “You folks always look so spiffed and proper—and me looking like hell again.” She laughed while self-consciously primping her hairdo, which looked a bit tired, perhaps, but perfectly presentable. “Care to see the reincarnation of Lord’s Rexall?”

  “Of course,” we gushed. “That’s why we’re here.”

  That was not, in fact, the point of our visit—Glee had come to question Grace about the impact of Carrol’s death upon the miniatures community—but there was no point in rushing into maudlin territory, which would surely dampen Grace’s mood. It was good to see her acting more like her sprightly old self again; it seemed she was beginning to shake the shock of the weekend’s tragic events.

  “It’s almost finished,” she told us while fiddling with some electrical cords, plugging one in. As she did so, her model drugstore came to life. Ceiling fans paddled slowly overhead; marquee-style lights raced around a mirror behind the soda fountain; backlit apothecary jars, flanking the prescription desk, glowed green and red; two signs, LORD’S and DRUGS, shone backwards in the display windows on either side of the entrance. And all this was contained in a box about a foot high, some three feet wide.

  “It’s sensational,” Neil told Grace.

  “Fabulous,” agreed Glee while making notes on her steno pad.

  Neil continued, “And the detail—just look at all the products on the shelves.”

  I told him, “Look closer. Everything has authentic labels.”

  “Jeez.” He peered deeply into the roombox, his nose crossing the imaginary fourth wall—Grace had removed the front panel of glass to work on her project. Neil told us, “Even the medicines and the prescription bins are labeled—which is Greek to me, or more likely Latin.” We laughed at this comment as he withdrew from the room-box, saying to Grace, “I assume the medical stuff took lots of research. Or did you just fake it?”

  “Heavens, no!” She raised her hands in mock horror, as if flabbergasted by the suggestion. With a laugh, she explained, “No, the drug names are authentic, and I didn’t need to look ’em up either.” She puffed herself, mocking conceit, a foible unnatural to her. “People forget—I was trained in pharmacy—it’s the Lord heritage.”

  Still eyeing the roombox, Neil concluded, “You’ve brought it all together beautifully. Congratulations, Grace.”

  I added, “It looks like a winner to me.”

  “Tut-tut.” Wagging a finger, Grace reminded me, “My entry is ‘for show’ only, which is sort of a nice position to be in—the others can scrap for the prizes.”

  Glee cleared her throat. “I hate to bring this up, Grace, but now that Carrol Cantrell is…out of the picture, who’ll judge the competition?”

  She wagged her head. “I admit, I was worried about that. It was bad enough, what happened to Carrol, but the thing is, it put me in a real pickle.” Her features brightened. “As luck would have it—and I apologize for even mentioning luck in a situation like this—Bruno agreed to step in and take over the judging. He used to be the second-biggest name in miniatures, you know.”

  “And now he’s number one,” I observed wryly.

  “That he is. So you see, Mark, I’d be back in a pickle if Sheriff Pierce arrested Bruno. Besides, he wouldn’t kill Carrol. I know, I know—they were serious rivals. But the truth is, they depended on each other for their success.”

  We all fell quiet while considering Grace’s words, and I recognized that she’d made a valid point. Carrol had been responsible for promoting and marketing Bruno’s work to the American market, and in turn, Bruno had supplied Carrol with the exquisite miniatures that established Carrol’s reputation as retail king of the mini world; their relationship was symbiotic, if not cordial. Nonetheless, I could not forget that Bruno had angrily stated his intentions to sever his dealings with Carrol, whom he called a “parasite”—and two days later, Carrol was dead. So even though Grace could dismiss her suspicions of Bruno, I could not.

  She added, “If anything, the stir surrounding all this has only heightened people’s interest in the competition.”

  Glee asked, “May I quote that? It’s an interesting aspect of the whole story.”

  “Sure,” Grace replied with a why-not shrug, “anything to promote the show. In fact, you can mention that we’ve gotten additional entries, due to all the publicity.”

  I told her, “I thought the collection had grown some since yesterday.” The roomboxes had now been arranged in two rows, whereas the day before,
they were aligned in a single, longer row.

  Neil asked, “Can we get a preview tour of the exhibit, Grace?”

  Glee added, “We’d really appreciate it.”

  “Of course,” replied Grace, already fiddling with a tangle of electrical cords that hung below the double row of roomboxes. The cords were plugged into a power strip, the sort used for computers, and with the flick of a single switch, the collection of shadow boxes was illuminated.

  Though the exhibit space itself was not darkened, the little rooms glowed with intensity. Displayed before us was the finest work of many serious amateurs, depicting a variety of rooms that ranged from cutesy to sophisticated, from whimsical flights of fancy to exacting reproductions of historical styles. It was impossible to absorb it all in one eyeful; we three visitors gawked and cooed, spinning our heads in search of a starting point.

  Helping us focus, Grace suggested, “I really like this one, a new entry from a man in Kenosha, a relative newcomer to the mini scene. He calls it ‘Cabot Cove Summer,’ and it’s just for fun. It’s his idea of what Jessica Fletcher’s vacation house would look like—if she had one.”

  It was fun. The miniaturist had constructed the parlor and hallway of a New England summerhouse, all decorated in cool shades of creamy off-white. The parlor also served as work space for television’s fictitious mystery writer, with a large desk moved into the light of a cheery bay window. Word processor, coffee mug, dictionary, and a stack of reference books were arrayed close at hand. A fireplace, Windsor chairs, pewter candlesticks, and tieback curtains helped reinforce the room’s heritage. Front and center sat a lacquered oriental chest, conveniently coffin-sized, perfect for displaying a grim collection of daggers, a mace, noose, and other devices of mayhem, intended for the author’s research.

  “I love it,” gushed Glee, recording details of the room in her notes.

  “It’s certainly no ‘dollhouse,’” said Neil. “Everything is perfectly proportioned, obviously the work of a designer’s eye.”