Name Games

by Michael Craft

  Reaching to pour coffee for Pierce, I told him, “Well, Doug, it was an uphill battle, but you did it.”

  “We did it,” he emphasized, “and I’ll never be able to thank you guys.”

  “Don’t thank us,” Neil told him. “Just keep doing a great job, as always.”

  With a pensive chuckle, Pierce said, “I knew the election would be close—but ninety-six votes? It seems I still have a bit of work to do in winning back the confidence of my constituents. There are plenty of them still uncomfortable with the idea of a gay sheriff.”

  “The point is,” said Neil, “you won. You proved yourself innocent of Carrol Cantrell’s murder, and in the process, you arrested the true killer.”

  Thad asked, “The old lady, right?” Inching from his chair with excitement, he told us, “It’s so cool—everyone says it’s just like our play, like Aunt Martha and Aunt Abby, who poison everybody. There’s been so much in the paper about it, Mrs. Osborne says we can expect sellout crowds. Are you coming, Sheriff? I’ll make sure you have a ticket.”

  I suggested, “Why don’t you come with us, Doug? Neil and I are going to the opening, Friday night.”

  Without a moment’s hesitation, Pierce said, “Sure. Sounds great.” As he yakked with Thad about the play, I marveled at the progress Pierce had made with his coming out. Though he’d befriended me during the week of my arrival in Dumont, he’d always seemed uneasy about socializing with Neil and me—he’d even turned down invitations to parties at our home. Now, of course, people had no reason to speculate about his sexual orientation, which was a matter of public record. Though Pierce had been outed in a particularly ugly way, he quickly concluded that he’d been not shamed, but liberated. So he didn’t think twice about making a date with Neil and me to attend the opening of our kid’s school play.

  “Gosh,” Thad told us, glancing at the clock, “I’d better get dressed.” Carrying his dishes from the table, he turned to tell Pierce, “Congratulations again, Sheriff.” Then he raced from the kitchen to the front hall, bounding up the stairs.

  “Imagine that,” said Pierce with a laugh. “They’re selling tickets like hotcakes because the play bears a resemblance to a local murder story.”

  “Hey,” said Neil, ever the practical philosopher, “whatever works.”

  I observed, “Unfortunately for Grace Lord, the future’s not nearly so rosy as it was for the dear aunties, who committed themselves to Happydale Sanitarium.”

  “No,” said Pierce, shaking his head, “life in prison will be no Happydale for Grace. She’ll be treated well, of course, and with any luck, she could be eligible for parole in a few years. But at her age—who knows? She may never see the outside world again.”

  Neil said, “Her ‘little world’ just got a lot smaller. Poor Grace.”

  “She murdered a man in cold blood,” I reminded him, “and the crime was premeditated, planned in exacting detail. She almost got away with it, and if she had, Doug wouldn’t be pothering over ninety-six votes this morning. Justice has been served.” Even so, I felt no joy in the situation. Neil was right. Poor Grace.

  Pierce cut a couple of slices from the kringle, serving Neil and me. He told us, “It was hard enough arresting Grace. Harley Kaiser had to prosecute the case against her, a task he didn’t relish. It didn’t set well with a lot of people.”

  I smiled. “The DA seems adrift in a public-relations crisis, doesn’t he?”

  Neil chomped the corner of his pastry. After wiping cream cheese from his lips, he told us, “Kaiser sure looked like a fool when he lost his must-win porn case. At considerable expense to county taxpayers, he shipped in that army of expert witnesses, and he still couldn’t get a local jury to agree on what’s obscene. Maybe he’s finally learned a lesson.”

  “Regardless,” said Pierce, “the county board will now be loath to renew funding for the assistant prosecutor hired by Kaiser to handle these cases. Their moral indignation over the presence of the porn shops has been overshadowed by an unshakable political reality—after all is said and done, the people of Dumont are not book burners. They simply don’t appreciate the efforts of those who seek to force their own private morality on the public at large. This is an issue to be fought from the pulpit, not city hall.”

  “Amen,” said Neil with a smirk.

  Listening, nodding, I was in complete agreement with the sentimerits expressed by both Pierce and Neil. “But it’s ironic,” I told them, “that Kaiser didn’t lose this case on moralistic grounds. From the beginning, the prosecution was tainted by the whiff of witness tampering, a direct result of Kaiser’s ill-advised visit to Cantrell on the morning before the murder. Ultimately, though, what scuttled Kaiser’s chances of wooing a jury was the public outrage over Dr. Tenelli’s financial interest in the trial.”

  From the side of his mouth, Pierce told me, “You wasted no time getting that story out.”

  I grinned. “Just doing my job, Doug—it was a natural for a page-one exposé. If the sainted doctor happened to be disgraced in the process, that was his doing, not mine. At least he had the decency not to deny anything. He resigned from the County Plan Commission the morning the story broke.”

  Pierce’s tone turned philosophical. “Miriam Westerman also suffered a setback with the defeat of that obscenity case. Her ax-grinding wasn’t based on moral grounds or financial interests, but on purely sexist motives. And she sought to elect my opponent, Deputy Dan, because his family-values platform fit her own agenda. Now that she’s been slapped down, maybe she’ll keep quiet for a while.”

  “I doubt it!” said Neil with a single burst of laughter.

  I told them, “I’ll bet she’s just lying dormant—but she could blow any day, without warning.”

  Now Pierce laughed. “Your take on Miriam is a bit slanted, isn’t it, Mark?”

  “Okay. It’s no secret that I don’t like the woman. It goes beyond that, though. I think she’s truly dangerous—not just her wacky views, not just her influence over innocent children, but also her stridency, her conviction. I believe she would stoop to anything, and I believe she did try to kill Carrol Cantrell. We know she laced that cake with peanut butter; what we’ll never know, because Kaiser tipped her off, is whether she understood that the peanuts would not be lethal to Cantrell. In a morbid sense, Miriam simply got lucky—someone else poisoned Cantrell, finishing the job she set out to do.”

  Pierce cautioned me gently, “Reserve your judgment on that, Mark. As you say, we’ll just never know what Miriam was up to. Whether she was ‘lucky’ or not, that’s for her to decide. Tragedies like this rarely have a silver lining. Fortune smiled on no one.”

  Fingering the rim of my coffee mug, I nodded. Pierce was right. “There weren’t any winners, were there? Carrol Cantrell, Grace Lord, Ben Tenelli—they’re all worse off than they were two months ago.”

  “Not so fast,” said Neil. “Don’t forget Bruno Hérisson. He’s now the reigning king of miniatures. His principal rival is out of the picture. Bruno even abandoned plans to open his own miniatures gallery—he simply bought out Cantrell’s business and moved right in.”

  “And don’t forget me,” said Pierce, leaning on his elbows, which brought him a few inches closer to both Neil and me. “I may have been falsely implicated in a murder. I may have been unceremoniously outed in the process. But now that it’s done, I am better off. I’ve discovered the depth of your friendship, I’m living my life openly, and I even managed to get reelected—by ninety-six votes. What more could a man ask?”

  “Ninety-seven?” quipped Neil.

  “Doug,” I told him, resting a hand on his sleeve, “friendship works both ways. Neil and I are equally privileged to know you. From day one, you’ve made us feel welcome in this town. If you ever need us, we’re here for you.”

  We all paused for a moment, sharing a smile, feeling a bit soppy. I tried to cover a grin by slurping some coffee, but it had gone cold, and the pot was empty.

  “Shall I make s
ome more?” offered Neil.

  “Not for me,” said Pierce, rising. “I’d better get down to the department. When I left yesterday, there was an element of uncertainty as to whether I’d be back this morning.” He laughed, checking his watch. “Time to prove the point.”

  We stood with him, agreeing that we too needed to launch our day. I was eager to get downtown to the Register; Neil wasn’t even dressed yet. So we thanked Pierce for the kringle, congratulated him again with a hug or two, got him into his coat, and watched as he left through the back door, admitting a nippy gust of November dawn.

  Neil told me, “You need to get going. I’ll clean up here.”

  “No rush. I’ll help.” And we set about clearing the table, loading the dishwasher, scrubbing down the sink and countertops. Stowing the leftover pastry in the refrigerator, thumping the door closed, I turned to tell Neil, “I’ve made a decision.”

  “Oh?” he said, looking up from the coffeemaker, wiping it clean.

  “We need a housekeeper. It’s time. I’ll place a classified as soon as I get downtown. We can start interviewing applicants this weekend.”

  “You’re right,” he said, folding a dish towel. “It is time. You’ll really need the extra help, now that the Quatro project is wrapping up.” With a laugh, he added, “You guys will be losing your ‘housewife.’”

  I didn’t want to hear that, not this morning. But it was now or never—I finally had to broach the topic I’d been brooding over.

  “Except,” he continued, interrupting my thoughts, “I’ve come to a decision of my own.” He grinned. It was that handsome grin I’d first fallen in love with. It was the face, the smile, that had changed my life.

  The sight of it only reinforced my dread of the day when Neil would return to his Chicago job. I must have been nuts, proposing our alternating-weekend “arrangement” in the first place. Warily, I asked, “A decision about what?”

  He answered with a question of his own: “Free for lunch today?”

  I answered with yet another question: “For you? Any day. Every day.”

  “What if I meet you at the Grill? I’d like to show you something.”

  I paused, afraid to ask. Could he possibly—?

  “That corner storefront. I’ve signed a lease. I’ve got the key. I mean, how could I leave Dumont now? Thad needs us—us. We have so little time with him until college, it would be crazy to miss these years together. So I’ll just have to take the plunge and try to reestablish my practice up here. Anyway, I want to show you the space and pick your brain about—”

  Stepping to him, I interrupted his discourse with a full-body hug—an engulfing, passionate, splat-against-the-wall embrace, replete with a deep coffee-flavored, tongue-wagging kiss. This wasn’t foreplay. This wasn’t fooling around. This was the real item—a kiss of love and thanks and adoration. That kind of rapture, that kind of happiness, doesn’t come along often. Some poor devils go to the grave without knowing it even once. Yet, there it was, right there in the kitchen on Prairie Street.

  “You’re…crying,” Neil told me as he held my face in his hands. “What’s wrong, Mark?”

  “Nothing. Absolutely nothing.”

  Tracing a finger across his lips, I counted myself a lucky man.

  Acknowledgements

  THE AUTHOR EXTENDS APOLOGIES to the “small world” of miniature interiors, whose devotees are subjected to a bit of ribbing in this story. Further, he thanks Paul Boyer, Ray Cebula, Will Clark, Steve Culberson, Mari Higgins-Frost, Eric Olson, Leon Pascucci, Randy Price, and Paul Spottswood for their generous assistance with various plot details. Special notes of gratitude are offered to John Scognamiglio, who taught this writer to write mysteries, and to Mitchell Waters and Keith Kahla, whose efforts have advanced this series in print.

  Turn the page to continue reading from the Mark Manning Mysteries

  PART ONE

  Teen Play

  WORLD PREMIERE

  Dumont Players’ new production should prove ‘utterly mah-velous’

  By GLEE SAVAGE

  Trends Editor, Dumont Daily Register

  AUG. 1, DUMONT WI—EXCITEMENT abounds among the Dumont Players Guild as the amateur theater company prepares to mount the premiere production of Teen Play. The original script was written by local radio personality Denny Diggins, who also directs the show. Opening night is this Friday, curtain at 8:00 P.M., with six performances running over two weekends at the historic Dumont Playhouse.

  The play’s plot is highly self-reflective, centering on a conflict between two teenage actors involved in the production of an original play, itself titled Teen Play. Said Diggins, “It’s an unusual conceit, one truly meant to challenge its audience. What I intend to deliver,” he added in a tone well known to longtime radio listeners, “is an utterly mah-velous evening of theater.”

  The roles of both playwright and director are new to the flamboyant Diggins, who has aired the often controversial Denny Diggins’ Dumont Digest for nearly 20 years. Asked about the motivation to try his hand at theater, he explained simply, “It was time to broaden my oeuvre.”

  The young cast of Teen Play is headlined by two accomplished high school actors. Jason Thrush, 17, will enter his senior year at Unity High this fall with three years of acting experience in eight productions. Thad Quatrain, also 17, attends Dumont Central, where the acting bug bit him just this past year. Both young men are double-cast in the production, playing the leading role of Ryan in alternating performances. Jason Thrush will star as Ryan in Friday night’s premiere.

  This reporter had the opportunity to watch a recent rehearsal at the Dumont Playhouse, downtown on First Avenue. Without telling too much, suffice it to say that the two-act play does deliver on its author’s promise. Friday night, petty rivalries will set the stage for murder when the baring of dark secrets leads to grim revenge. Don’t miss it.

  Wednesday, August 1

  RYAN. Turn, crossing to Down Left window, (flippantly) Not that it really matters, Dawson. Not tonight. It’s only community theater. Pick up football from desk.

  DAWSON. Rise, following, (from behind) And what’s that supposed to mean?

  RYAN. Turn to him. Pause. It means, there’s a world beyond Podunk. Gesture toward dark sky outside of window. There are bigger things ahead. Cross to Center, twiddling football in hands. (thinking aloud) For some of us.

  DAWSON. (laughing) Lighten up, Ryan. We’re kids, for God’s sake. And I thought we were friends. This isn’t a contest.

  RYAN. Everything’s a contest, pal. Throw football to Dawson, hard.

  DAWSON. Fumble ball. Cross one step toward Center. No, Ryan. It’s a play, not a contest. We open soon, and we’re in it together, all of us. We’re a team.

  RYAN. Good teams win. And winning teams have winning players. (smugly) Some are better than others.

  DAWSON. Step nearer. (getting angry) Okay, “pal.” You’re better than the rest of us—you’re the best. Step face-to-face. Is that what you need to hear?

  RYAN. (grunting) Not from you. Shove Dawson, palms to chest.

  DAWSON. (with resolve) Watch it. It’s not cool to treat a friend that way. And if that friend happens to be your understudy—well, don’t be stupid.

  RYAN. (slyly, quietly) Don’t you be stupid, Dawson. I know all about that “little incident” over spring break. Poke Dawson’s chest with finger. Not something we’d care to spread around, right?

  DAWSON. (hatefully) Why, you…Lunge at Ryan.

  RYAN. Trip Dawson. Don’t make me laugh, you pathetic…Tumble together to the floor.

  (Sound Cue 7: Desk phone rings, continues throughout.)

  RYAN AND DAWSON. Tussle. Ad-lib epithets. Roll together against Right Center end table, upsetting lamp. After lamp CRASHES:

  (Lighting Cue 11: Room partially darkens.)

  RYAN. Pin Dawson to floor. Tonight, or opening night, or any night, don’t ever forget this. Don’t ever forget who’s on top. Tense pause. Release Dawson.


  DAWSON. Rise, brushing self with hands. Cross to Up Right doorway. Pause, looking back, (bitterly) Keep it up, Ryan, and you may not live till opening night. Remember, I’ll be waiting in the wings. Exit.

  RYAN. Laugh, sprawling on floor, as:

  (Lighting Cue 12: Quick fade to black.)

  (Sound Cue 8: Phone rings LOUD one last time in darkness. Then silence.)

  “Mah-velous!” proclaimed Denny Diggins, clapping, breaking the theatrical spell. Rising from the dim pool of light that spilled from his makeshift director’s table in the fifth row of seats, he called to the control booth, “Houselights, please!” As he ambled to the center aisle, the rest of the cast and crew gathered near the front of the stage, applauding the two young actors for their performance of the fight scene that concluded act one.

  Though the boys had made the scene look easy and natural, I knew that it had taken weeks of work—part of June and all of July—every movement carefully choreographed and rehearsed. I gladly added to the applause. Dawson, the kid who made the final threat, was played by Thad Quatrain, my seventeen-year-old ward. Two winters ago, when I moved to Wisconsin as the new owner and publisher of the Dumont Daily Register, Thad’s mother, a wealthy cousin of mine, died unexpectedly, leaving Thad in my care. Technically, he and I are second cousins, but we think of each other as nephew and uncle. In our day-to-day lives, we dispense with the specifics of kinship and simply call each other Thad and Mark.

  My full name, by the way, is Mark Quatrain Manning. I’m forty-three, a reporter by training who made waves in Chicago as an investigative journalist. My acclaim stemmed from a succession of high-profile stories that I reported for the prestigious Chicago Journal. What’s more, I am gay—a distinction that I refused to hide when I myself discovered it nearly four years ago, at the height of my career and at the brink of middle age.