Name Games

by Michael Craft

  Westerman puffed herself up and literally hissed—like a big snake with hair. “Ssssisters shouldn’t turn on sisterssss,” she warned Roxanne.

  Now Roxanne was speechless, which took some doing.

  But Neil was undaunted. “What’s this about, Miriam? This is hardly the—”

  She hollered, “This is about the death of Carrol Cantrell. This is about the slanderous accusations that I was in any way involved in that crime.”

  Now at least I understood the point of this confrontation. Obviously, Harley Kaiser had tattled to Westerman the suspicions we had clumsily voiced in his presence at my office the previous afternoon. Obviously, she’d figured out that the Register’s only interest in visiting her loony school was to sniff her out as a murder suspect. With a small army of wide-eyed witnesses now hanging on every word of this unorthodox debate, I told her, “You’ve been accused of nothing, Miriam. We’d be remiss in our investigation if we failed to follow up on suspicious circumstances.”

  Seething, she snapped back, “The only ‘suspicious circumstance’ in this crime is that our homosexual sheriff happened to sodomize the victim mere hours before his strangled body was discovered. I also find it suspicious that you, Mr. Manning, have spared no effort to convince the public that our homosexual sheriff’s scandalous behavior is irrelevant to both the murder and the election. Could it be that your prurient interest in a fellow sodomite has tainted your precious objectivity?” She glared at me in silence, raising an inquisitive brow.

  I’d managed to control my emotions throughout this assault, but now she’d pushed too far. It was time to lash back—not with a temperamental outburst, but with the one question that could truly hurt her. “Miriam,” I asked point-blank before the scores of onlookers, “why would anyone lace a cake with peanut butter, then feed it to a man who was known to be severely allergic to nuts?”

  I wasn’t sure what sort of reaction to expect from her, but I was not prepared for what followed. She became suddenly calm, as though she had expected my question and had wanted me to ask it. Her cracked lips parted, forming a smirk. A whiff of her warm, foul breath hung between us. A look of victory flashed in her eyes as she told me dryly, rotely, “The peanut is a legume, Mr. Manning, not a nut. What’s your point?”

  Her comeback produced its intended effect—it left me wordless.

  With an air of triumph, she spun on one clog, twirling her cape. Perhaps it was my imagination, but I’d swear she cackled—wickedly, of course—as she clomped down the aisle, headed for the exit.

  Crowds parted, letting her pass.

  They gave her wide berth.

  Was Miriam Westerman aware of the distinction between peanuts and tree nuts when she laced Cantrell’s cake with peanut butter? I would never know the answer to this question—Harley Kaiser had tipped her off regarding things that were said during our Friday-afternoon meeting with the coroner. She had learned that I suspected her of the murder, and she had learned of the coroner’s contention that peanuts are not necessarily deadly to someone with a nut allergy.

  I couldn’t prove, of course, that Kaiser had armed her with this information. More important, I could now never prove that her intent was murderous when she laced the cake. In the exhibit hall that morning, before a throng of witnesses, she had proved her knowledge that peanuts are legumes, implying that this is common knowledge rather than botanical trivia. If the toxicology tests proved that Cantrell had indeed died from peanuts, Westerman now had a plausible defense—she had known only of his allergy to “nuts” and assumed peanuts were harmless to him. Alternately, if the tests proved that Cantrell did not die from an allergic reaction, Westerman would be off the hook entirely—and Douglas Pierce would find himself charged with the murder of his flamboyant gay sex partner.

  These were the thoughts, the circular worries, that nettled me all day Saturday. Returning from the miniatures show, Neil, Roxanne, and I had a casual lunch at the house on Prairie Street, attempting to limit our banter to the convention’s various curiosities, but we invariably digressed, rehashing irksome details of the murder mystery—the allergy, the needle marks, the extortion note, the silk scarf. Each of these clues pointed the investigation in a different direction, arousing new suspicions, but none of these clues had led us to name Cantrell’s unknown killer.

  Frustrated, we went our separate ways that afternoon. I went to the Register to check on Lucy and her research of Dr. Tenelli (no promising leads). Roxanne went to visit Pierce at the sheriff’s department to review details of his involvement with Cantrell. Neil went grocery shopping. And Thad stayed home memorizing his role.

  Converging back at the house, no one felt sufficiently motivated to cook, and we again voiced our growing need to replace Hazel, the Quatrain family’s retired housekeeper. So we decided to go out—an early dinner at First Avenue Grill might lighten our spirits, and Thad would be finished in time to rush off to his first rehearsal, the read-through of Arsenic and Old Lace.

  Thad was so psyched about the play, it dominated our conversation at table that evening—a welcome breather from our obsessive analysis of clues and suspects. It was the first time Roxanne had heard details of Thad’s budding interest in theater, and sure enough, “I was in that play!” she told us.

  “I never knew that,” said Neil, laughing.

  It was the first I’d heard of it too. “You weren’t one of the kindly old aunties, were you?” I recalled that the large cast had few female roles, and I couldn’t quite envision Roxanne hobbling around in black bombazine and a mourning veil.

  “No,” she assured us. “I was Elaine, the ingenue from next door.”

  “The minister’s daughter?” cracked Neil. “Not exactly typecasting, was it?”

  “It was high school,” she reminded us. “I was innocent—once.”

  Thad loved hearing about all this, and by seven o’clock, he excused himself, offering a round of hugs before tearing out of the restaurant with his script.

  Neil, Roxanne, and I lingered over dessert and coffee awhile, but soon it was time for us to leave as well. It was Saturday evening, and it was still early, but there was really nothing to “do,” so the three of us returned to the house. In truth, we weren’t in the mood for a night out. We knew that with each passing hour, Doug Pierce’s waiting game with the coroner was drawing to a close. By morning, Vernon Formhals would have Cantrell’s toxicology report. For all we knew, Pierce’s fate was already sealed—in an envelope headed for Dumont by express messenger.

  “Anything on TV?” asked Neil as we entered the house, switching on lights.

  “Is there ever?” I replied with a sarcastic edge, having no taste for those second-run action movies that dominate the tube on Saturday night.

  Roxanne said, “You have a VCR, don’t you?” Her tone had a wry, suggestive quality that puzzled me. Then she explained glibly, “The kid’s out of the house for the evening. Why don’t we take a look at that old tape you had me deliver?”

  Her suggestion caught me off guard, and I wasn’t sure how to react to it. On the one hand, I’d been yearning for days to get another look at the video of Rascal Tyner that had made such an erotic impression on me years earlier during my closeted past. On the other hand, the images on that tape depicted so many of my private fantasies, I was uncomfortable with the notion of viewing it again in Neil’s presence—let alone Roxanne’s.

  But the two of them had no qualms at all. “Do you realize,” Neil asked Roxanne, “that this is the same tape you bought for me back in college?”

  Laughing, she reminisced, “It seems I’ve always been procuring for you.” She didn’t need to explain that she still took credit for introducing me to Neil.

  He turned, asking, “How about it, Mark? Up for a bit of historic eroticism?”

  “I don’t care,” I lied. “Whatever.”

  “Then it’s show time,” said Roxanne, rubbing her hands gleefully.

  Laughing, I asked her, “What’s your interest in gay p
ornography?”

  She paused, eyeing me skeptically. “Mark, I’m a mature heterosexual woman. I enjoy watching horny naked men as much as you do. Kicks is kicks.”

  Duly chastised for my lack of insight, I felt compelled to ask, “We won’t have to lock you in your room tonight, will we?”

  “I’ll behave. Promise.”

  Neil was already setting up for our evening of video nostalgia, deciding on the television in the cozy confines of my den, plumping pillows on the leather sofa, asking me, “Where’s the tape?”

  “In my desk, top drawer.” Getting into the spirit of things, I offered, “Drinks, everyone?”

  “Sure,” they answered. Neil added, “I picked up a bag of those orange things for you. They’re in the cupboard with the cereal.”

  Chee-Zees? This evening was shaping up better than anticipated. Retreating to the kitchen, I found the snacks, opened the bag, and dumped them into a big yellow Fiesta bowl. Then I poured a round of drinks—I didn’t need to ask the specifics. Neil and I would have our usual vodka on ice, while Roxanne, three years on the wagon, would indulge in nothing stronger than mineral water. With the three glasses garnished, I loaded them on a tray with the Chee-Zees and met the others in the den.

  Neil hunkered near the fireplace, opening a cabinet that housed the VCR, loading the cassette. Roxanne flitted from lamp to lamp, dimming lights. In the semidarkened room, a shaft of light from the porch angled in through the front window and zigzagged across my desk to the floor. Setting my tray on the coffee table, I sat in the middle of the love seat. Neil and Roxanne joined me, squeezing in on either side. They had already removed their shoes, and I now kicked mine off as well. On an unspoken but mutually understood cue, we reached for our drinks, removing them from the tray.

  “To the future,” said Roxanne, lifting her glass.

  “To the present,” I said, skoaling both of my companions.

  “To the past,” said Neil, saluting the blank TV screen. With his finger poised over the remote control, he added, “To Rascal Tyner.” And he pushed the button.

  As we sipped from our glasses, the screen flickered to life. Neil zapped through the dead leader, the obligatory “FBI Warning,” the scrolling text about free speech, the glittering Hot Head Video logo, then finally the main title: Rascal Tyner’s Hottest Hits. As Neil removed his finger from the button, the tape began playing at normal speed, and we now heard the sound—the same dated, nameless disco hit that had thumped into my dreams.

  And then, there he was. Rascal Tyner appeared on the screen, dancing naked to the disco beat. The program was clearly old—its technical finesse seemed ancient—but it had been shot directly on videotape, not film, so the moving image of the dead porn idol had an uncanny immediacy. The close shots of his face made it instantly apparent why he’d captured such an adoring audience. Roxanne growled hungrily. Neil squeezed my thigh. I felt the warm lump of arousal in my pants and wondered if this group viewing was such a good idea—things could get embarrassing. But I couldn’t take my eyes off the screen. The camera drifted over various sections of Rascal’s body as he danced, while the superimposed title paraded past in a continuous ribbon: Rascal Tyner’s Hottest Hits…Rascal Tyner’s Hottest Hits…Rascal Tyner’s Hottest Hits…

  At last the camera showed his entire body. Yes! He wore those shoes, those same white leather running shoes that had captured my imagination, fueled my fantasies, and spiced my dreams. The title continued to roll past the screen, flashing psychedelic colors to the disco beat: Rascal Tyner’s Hottest Hits…Rascal Tyner’s Hottest Hits…Rascal Tyner’s Hottest Hits…

  The music continued, but now the image of Rascal’s dancing body was interrupted by stills from the various “solo” scenes to be featured on the tape. We got quick peeks, teasers, of the hunky porn star masturbating—on a pool table, in the shower, in an open field, on a bulldozer—each scene progressively more fevered. Throughout, the main title continued to roll: Rascal Tyner’s Hottest Hits…Rascal Tyner’s Hottest Hits…Rascal Tyner’s Hottest Hits…

  I was getting every bit as aroused as the man I saw on the screen, and I’d ceased to care whether Neil or Roxanne noticed. After all, this was their idea—if the video produced its intended effect on me, so what? We were all of age. We were well within the bounds of propriety. We were enjoying a bit of adult entertainment in the privacy of our own home.

  Dingdong.

  Huh? Roxanne, Neil, and I froze guiltily where we sat, then wagged our heads at each other, asking silently, Was that the doorbell? Now?

  Dingdong.

  “Jeez,” I muttered. “Can you see who that is, Neil?”

  He was on the end of the sofa nearest the window, where a shadow now fell from the porch light. He stepped over to the curtain and glimpsed out. “Hey, Mark, it’s your editor, Lucille Haring.”

  I stood reluctantly (I’d lost my fearless attitude about my erection more quickly than I was able to lose the erection itself), telling them, “This could be important.” Stepping out of the den into the front hall, I called back to Roxanne, “Can you take care of that, please?” meaning, Turn off the television.

  When the disco stopped thumping, I opened the front door. Lucy rushed in, telling me, “Mark, I found something.” Not normally one to show much emotion, tonight she was effusive, explaining, “I had to tell you to your face.” She grinned.

  By now Neil and Roxanne had emerged from the den, their curiosity piqued. When Lucy saw them, she acknowledged them offhandedly. Since she normally went gaga at the sight of Roxanne, I knew she must have found something big.

  She told me, “You said you needed a piece of the puzzle to link Dr. Tenelli to the obscenity trial. I think I’ve dug it up.”

  I smiled broadly. “Oh, really?” Stepping closer to Lucy in the front hall, I saw through the den doorway that Roxanne had not turned off the television, but had merely paused the VCR. There was Rascal Tyner, frozen in the middle of a dance step, strutting his manhood in those sexy shoes—I could just see the tops of them. His ankles were barely covered by sagging white athletic socks.

  Focus, I ordered myself. “Let’s have it, Lucy. What did you find?” Though I would hang on her every word, I could not prevent my gaze from drifting back to the image on the screen as she spoke.

  “I’ve been at it all day, and I was coming up dry. I checked out everything we have on Tenelli—the Register’s morgue has bulging files on the guy—he’s been such a conspicuous figure in Dumont all these years. But there was nothing to arouse the slightest suspicion. So then I got busy with public documents, logging into court records to see if there was anything fishy with regard to malpractice—but nothing. Then I retraced my earlier research of the county assessor’s office, and there was nothing with regard to taxes, real estate, or any other business dealings that would even raise an eyebrow—nothing overdue, nothing contested, nothing audited.” She paused for a breath.

  I laughed. “Very thorough, Lucy. But what’s the point?” Having asked the question, I allowed my gaze to return to the television, where it lingered on the electronic image of Rascal frozen in a midair leap, flashing that perfect smile, flexing that perfect body. The title was still emblazoned across the screen: Rascal Tyner’s Hottest Hits…Rascal Tyner’s Hottest Hits…Rascal Tyner’s Hottest Hits…

  “The point,” said Lucy, “is that Ben Tenelli’s tax and real-estate records show no impropriety whatever. They did, however, get me curious about Tenelli’s family history, which in turn sheds light on…everything. Are you aware that Tenelli grew up on a farm?”

  “Yeah. He mentioned that. Lots of people around here grew up on farms. His family moved into town when he entered high school. That was fifty-some years ago.” I was beginning to think that Lucy’s research had led her down a dead-end path. At that moment, the image on the screen was far more intriguing—Rascal Tyner, frozen in time.

  “Eventually,” continued Lucy, “when the parents were growing older, they put the property in a tru
st that was set up by a Milwaukee bank. For several years, a succession of tenant farmers leased the land, with the bank handling all payments, taxes, and any other bookwork. When the parents died, Ben inherited the farm, which is out along the highway, near the interstate. Long ago, he was approached by a business that wanted to set up shop on the property, but before granting the lease, Ben created a shell corporation in Minnesota. Privately held, its sole stockholder was Ben himself, and its sole purpose was to hold the new lease and to transfer payments back into the trust at the Wisconsin bank.”

  Neil shook his head. “Is it just me? I can’t follow that.”

  “I’m a lawyer,” Roxanne noted, “and even I find the setup confusing.”

  “It was meant to be confusing,” Lucy assured us. “With the various tenant farmers, the trust in Milwaukee, and finally the shell corporation in Minnesota, Ben created the illusion that the property had changed hands several times over the years—but he still owns that farm. The barn is now painted pink. It’s Star-Spangled Video.”

  “What?” Neil, Roxanne, and I asked in unison.

  Needing to verify what I’d heard, I asked, “Tenelli owns Star-Spangled Video?” As I spoke, I turned again to glimpse the video image of Rascal Tyner in the next room.

  “The land,” confirmed Lucy, “not the business. In fact, the business itself changed hands some years ago, bought out by a larger outfit based in New York. The new owners assumed the cheap, ironclad long-term lease from the Minnesota corporation. They had no way of knowing who the actual owner of the land was, and Tenelli had no way of knowing that there were any serious prospects of development along the highway. Now, everything’s changed, and the land would be worth a fortune if he could get rid of the porn shop.”

  “Suddenly,” said Roxanne, “it seems that the revered Dr. Tenelli had a very strong motive indeed for making sure that Carrol Cantrell would not defend the First Amendment at the upcoming obscenity trial.”

  “Amazing,” said Neil, shaking his head. “This really explains a lot. Mark saw Tenelli’s car parked at the porn shop this week. I wonder what game he’s playing.”