Just before the houselights winked out, I noticed someone stand in the packed auditorium and begin walking up the aisle toward the lobby. There was no mistaking the lean figure, the sultry swagger, the black satin—it was Mica Thrush, heading out of the theater.
The crowd again hushed itself as the room went completely dark. Then, with an audible hum, the stage lights came on, full power, and the scene was set. Teen Play had begun. After a few lines of opening dialogue from minor characters, Ryan made his entrance, and to my surprise (Thad’s too, I’m sure), the audience erupted with applause, as if cheering the hero, the understudy who was called upon to save the show. I knew, of course, that Thad was thoroughly rehearsed in the role—he would have played Ryan the next night anyway—but this distinction was lost on the crowd as they clapped their approbation and support. Without breaking character, Thad and everyone else onstage momentarily froze in a tableau, waiting for the applause to wane, then continued with their dialogue. I had never heard Thad in better voice. And I had not before seen him in the role of Ryan, which he acted with confidence and authority. If the last-minute casting change threw him at all, it was not the least bit evident.
I quickly dismissed the real-world issues and actions and problems that had led to that moment, allowing myself to slip into the new world being created behind the proscenium. As theater folk would say, I “suspended my disbelief” and bought into the whole fabrication, forgetting that it was Thad up there. As minutes passed, the plot began to twist and thicken. I wondered, really caring, What next?
Pierce, squirming in his seat next to me, broke my theatrical spell as he reached inside his jacket and unclipped the pager from his belt. The gizmo had apparently alerted him with a vibrating signal, and he now strained to see its readout in the dim light of the auditorium. Adding to this distraction, Glee passed her penlight down the row to him, rousing Barb’s and Neil’s curiosity. Heads in the row behind us turned as well, wondering what we were looking at. At last Pierce managed to position the pager at a legible angle under the narrow beam of light. Nudging my knee with his, he offered me a look at the readout—he was needed at the Thrush residence, the home of the missing actor. Rising from his seat, he headed for the lobby.
Turning to give Neil’s arm a squeeze of apology, I rose, following the sheriff out of the theater.
In the lobby, Pierce told me, “It’s police business. You stay, Mark. Thad would want you here.”
“I know,” I conceded, nodding, “but I’ve got an uneasy feeling that whatever’s happening at the Thrushes’ might spell trouble for Thad. Please, Doug—I feel I need to be there.”
He paused briefly, gathering his thoughts, but was too rushed to argue. “All right,” he said, exhaling. “But you won’t get in on your own. Ride with me.”
The Thrush residence was located in a pricey development of larger homes near the edge of town—a rolling-knolls subdivision peppered with old oaks and the sort of shake-shingled mini-mansions that Neil often derides as “big dumb houses.” Some looked like storybook castles, others like Mediterranean villas. A particularly ungainly specimen resembled the Alamo—with a front-loading three-car garage. There were several examples of Disney-French, one of which, at the end of a cul-de-sac, was meant to pass for a cozy countryside stable, but it was just too damn big. The intended ambience was further contradicted by an assembly of police vehicles, hastily parked at jumbled angles, flashers flashing. I had never known exactly where Jason Thrush lived, but clearly, we’d arrived.
It was past eight-thirty, and dusk was slipping toward night. I got out of the car and waited for Pierce to finish on the radio. The conversation was sufficient to tell me what we’d find inside, but not a word was said that explained how it had happened. A sheriff’s deputy came out of the house and jogged down the sidewalk to meet us as Pierce got out of the car.
Pierce quickly introduced us—the man in uniform was Jim Johnson, the first officer to arrive on the scene.
“Who called it in?” Pierce asked him.
“The sister. She’s a weird one—named Mica.”
“Who else is home?”
“Just the father.” Johnson didn’t need to mention the dozen cops, the crew of evidence technicians—or the coroner.
“Let’s have a look,” said Pierce, and the three of us walked up to the house.
Though the exterior resembled a stable, the inside leaned, shall we say, toward the opulent—nothing says “welcome home” quite so eloquently as that touch of Versailles. Louis-this, Louis-that, everywhere. Chandeliers, gold hardware, tasseled curtains, the works. Though our mission was grim, I couldn’t suppress a wry smile, wondering how Neil would react to this place.
There didn’t seem to be anyone around. Pierce asked Johnson, “Where?”
“Upstairs. Bedroom.” And he led us up the curved staircase.
The upstairs hall was abuzz with hushed activity. Officers sidled into and out of a brightly lit room that I assumed to be Jason’s. Mica was on the far side of the hall, standing speechless next to a seated man who held his head in his hands. I assumed this to be her father, but he seemed far too old.
Pierce stepped to the bedroom door. “Could we have some room, please?” he quietly asked everyone, who filed out to the hall.
I followed Pierce inside. We were not alone. Dr. Vernon Formhals, the county coroner, was present—as was the body of Jason Thrush.
The death of someone young, who has yet to hit his prime, is always a startling event. More than merely mourn the tragedy, we grieve at the loss of potential—the victim represents promises unfulfilled and a life unlived. What’s more, such death seems such a waste, and in Jason’s case, this sense of forfeited opportunities was amplified by a perfect physique on the verge of manhood, lost. How easily I forgot my disdain for the living person, which had been home to a mean and arrogant spirit. That spirit had now flown, leaving only its handsome hull.
Jason lay prone on his bed, one leg dropped over the edge, his foot to the floor. He was dressed for a summer day in knit shirt, shorts, and tennis shoes. The bed was neatly made, its pillows unrumpled. He looked as if he had just lain down for a nap. Or had he collapsed there? His face was turned toward us, eyes gently closed, like the frozen portrait of a beautiful sleeping child—but the image was spoiled by a sizable gob of mucus that hung like molten, greenish rubber from his sagging mouth.
“God,” I said, stepping close to stare into his blank visage, “what happened?”
Dr. Formhals answered, “No idea.”
Pierce asked him, “Natural causes?”
“Can’t tell yet.” Stretching a fresh pair of white latex gloves over his massive black hands, Formhals explained the obvious need for an autopsy, the various tests they could run, the expected timetable for obtaining results.
As the coroner spoke, I remained at the bedside, crouching to study the body, weighing the mixture of attraction and revulsion I felt. There was no indication of trauma or struggle; Jason simply lay there, dead. Sniffing, I concluded that he could not have been there more than a few hours, as there was no foul hint of decay. Nor had his bowels discharged, perhaps due to the position of his body. In fact, the predominant smell at close range was sweet and flowery—the same “cheap perfume” noted by Kwynn Wyman at Wednesday night’s rehearsal. He’d laid it on thick again. Inhaling the fruity scent, I was struck by a vague sensory memory, not from Wednesday, but from long ago. The fragrance was familiar. Had I known someone else who once wore it?
Rising (my knees cracked), I turned to ask the coroner, “Can you estimate the time of death, Vernon?”
He stepped next to me at the bedside. “This is preliminary, of course.” He draped his palm over the thickest part of the boy’s upper thigh, telling us, “The body is still slightly warm.” He poked the leg with his index finger. “The skin still blanches when touched.” Then, using both gloved hands, he gently lifted Jason’s head and moved it about, observing, “The first signs of rigor are evident i
n the neck and jaw.” Allowing Jason’s head to rest again, Formhals paused to pat it, smoothing a still-lustrous lock of hair above an unhearing ear. Turning to us, he continued, “The room had been closed and air-conditioned, a steady seventy-two. The boy probably died between three and four hours ago.”
Pierce checked his watch. “Nine now. That would put it between five and six.”
Formhals nodded. “Close enough.”
I told them, “That explains where Jason was at six-thirty. But Denny Diggins said he’d been trying to phone him all afternoon and could never get past the answering machine.”
As Pierce made note of this, I glanced around the room, taking my first real look at it (since entering, I’d been focused, naturally, on the body). Jason’s second-floor bedroom was spacious and well furnished, not Frenchy like the rest of the house, but looking like a typical “guy’s room”—well, a typical rich guy’s room. There was a bed, desk, dresser, and a few side chairs, all of matched dark hardwood. The curtains, bedspread, and a large upholstered chair and ottoman shared the same handsome plaid fabric, very nubby, correctly masculine. The thick beige carpeting was perfectly clean, surely wool. There were lots of framed pictures, two (maybe three) wall mirrors, and an abundance of stuff—sports gear, trophies, stereo, television, computer, and on the desk, a telephone, the oversize sort of office phone with extra buttons. In spite of Jason’s many possessions, his bedroom had an anonymous, sanitized feeling, like a hotel room.
I didn’t see an answering machine, so I reasoned that Denny’s calls must have been picked up by voice mail. But why hadn’t Jason answered in the first place? Was he there in the bedroom, sick and dying? Or was he simply somewhere else? I realized there was a lot to sort out, and so did Pierce—his face wrinkled in a perplexed scowl as he stood near the bed scratching notes.
“My son was all I had, you know.”
We turned as the decrepit-looking man entered the bedroom from the hall, grasping the doorjamb. He wore a conservative business suit and white dress shirt, but no tie or shoes. Pierce crossed the room to assist him to a chair. “My condolences, Mr. Thrush. I’m so sorry.”
“You still have me, Daddy,” said Mica, appearing in the doorway, still in her Dracula drag. “Don’t forget about me.” Her expression, as usual, was flat and plastic, as if she wore a mask. She said the words through hard-edged black lips, without apparent emotion. Her tone carried nothing to convince us that she meant to console her father or mourn her brother. If anything, she sounded mildly amused—and terribly bored.
The Thrush patriarch glanced briefly at his daughter, as if staring straight through her into the hallway, as if she didn’t exist. Then he turned back to us. Ignoring both the sheriff and the coroner, choosing me, he fixed me in his gaze. Though we’d never met, he explained, “Jason would have followed me in the business, my business, the business I founded and nurtured. But now”—he dropped his head backward and laughed at the ceiling—“now it seems the mantle will be passed to Mica.”
“Not yet, Daddy,” she told him, watching me instead of her father. “There’s so much left for you to accomplish.” She didn’t mean a word of it, making no attempt to disguise her insincerity.
“May I ask you a few questions, Mr. Thrush?” said Pierce, readying a fresh page of his notebook.
That was my cue—I extracted my own notepad from a jacket pocket and uncapped my Montblanc, hungry for a few facts. I soon learned that Jason’s father was Burton Thrush, age fifty-six. He claimed a history of ill health, which explained why he appeared far older than his years, forcing me to wonder if his son’s unexpected death would simply be too much for him. His wife had died some years ago; Jason and Mica were their only children. He confirmed that Jason was seventeen, Mica twenty-one.
While Pierce conversed with Thrush, I watched Mica saunter through the room. She brushed within a hair’s breadth of Coroner Formhals, pausing to trace her sharp, black fingernail over his strong, black chin and down his throat. She smiled faintly as his eyes widened. He stepped back, giving her a clear path to the bed.
She stood there, beading baby brother with a stare, as if he were holding his breath and they were playing a game. When he didn’t move, she began to appear impatient. With hands on hips, she leaned over the bed. As her hair fell forward, her bare back and most of her ass were exposed squarely to Formhals, who gaped in astonishment for a moment before turning away to fidget with something in his medical bag.
Mica leaned closer over her brother, then smiled. She tried blowing in his ear. Getting no response, she proceeded to tickle him, first his neck, then his armpits, then down his sides, groping under his hips.
Burton Thrush, engrossed in grief, didn’t even notice.
Pierce had a busy night ahead of him and would not be returning to the theater, so he asked a deputy to drive me back.
Walking through the quiet lobby, I peeked through the doors into the auditorium. I’d been gone for about an hour, and Thad was now onstage with Tommy Morales, playing Ryan and Dawson. Having attended the dress rehearsal, I recognized the scene from act two—I’d missed most of the performance. I recalled that there would be a brief scene shift near the end of the show, when I could slip in without disturbing anyone.
Waiting with the door cracked open, I listened to the dialogue. Thad and Tommy were acting up a storm, not dropping a cue, with the packed audience dead quiet, hanging on every word. The scene soon ended with a momentary blackout. As the audience responded with a polite round of applause (nothing effusive yet, as the play’s climax still lay ahead), the houselights came on dimly, signaling a pause while the stage was reset. Opening the door, I returned to my seat.
Neil, Barb, and Glee turned toward me, leaning in their seats, a silent plea for information. But the houselights had already begun to fade, so I replied with an apologetic shrug, raising a finger to my lips. My news would have to wait, which came as something of a relief. For the moment, I was glad to shoo from my mind the recent encounter with Jason’s corpse—and his dysfunctional family—replacing that disturbing reality with a few minutes of theatrical distraction.
Unfortunately, I was soon reminded that the last scene of Teen Play bore a striking resemblance to the scenario that had just been played out at the Thrush residence. The action resumed onstage:
The rivalry that has been developing between the two main characters, Ryan and Dawson, now climaxes in murder. It is the night when the play within the play is scheduled to open, and Dawson kills Ryan, stepping into the leading role.
Thad and Tommy gave a chilling, realistic performance of the dramatic ending, and the audience reacted as intended, momentarily horrified by the ruthless bludgeoning they witnessed. But I was all the more stunned—not that the staged gore bore any physical similarity to Jason Thrush’s demise, but the circumstances were staggeringly alike. Surely, I feared, as soon as the news broke that Jason had died that night, everyone who had seen the play would make the same connection, wondering if art had imitated life—or vice versa.
Suddenly the room was dark, and the audience burst into applause. I wasn’t even conscious of the play’s final moments, but it had ended, and the crowd loved it. I felt Neil hug my shoulder; Barb leaned over him to give me a thumbs-up; Glee scribbled notes with a wide, happy grin. Thad, it seemed, was a triumph. During curtain call, when it was finally his turn to walk downstage for a bow, cheers rang from the crowd, and within moments, we were all on our feet. Thad dutifully waved Denny Diggins to the stage to share the applause, and I had to admit that our pompous fledgling playwright had delivered on his promise. Joining the others, I clapped all the louder.
After several curtain calls, my arms ached and my palms stung. At last the applause faded, and the actors left the stage as the houselights came on.
“Mark,” Glee told me, stretching to shake my hand, “it was mah-velous, wasn’t it?” We all laughed our agreement. “I’ll scamper right over to the office to write my review—there’s just enough time
to make the morning edition.”
I then realized that I myself had a deadline to meet. As the only newsman on the scene when Jason’s body was discovered, I’d need to “switch hats” tonight, stepping out of my publisher’s role and back into that of reporter. Duty called. It was a page-one story—and to think that only yesterday I’d been bemoaning the lack of local news.
“Actually,” I told Glee, “I need to take care of something back at the paper as well. I’ll give you a ride.” The Register’s offices were only a few blocks away, and I assumed Glee had walked to the theater, as her apartment was also downtown.
“Hold on,” Neil interrupted. “We’ve got to see Thad first. He’ll be expecting us backstage. Look”—he pointed to a side door near the front of the theater—“others are herding back there already.”
He was right. We had to congratulate Thad—I felt bad enough that I’d missed most of the performance. Glee and I could spare a few minutes before rushing to our computers. Besides, if we needed more time, I was in a position to fudge our deadline. After all, presses now rolled at my command. “Thanks for the reminder,” I told Neil, giving him a hug. “First things first.”
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About the Author
Michael Craft is the author of more than a dozen novels and three stage plays. He is best known as the author of the popular Mark Manning series, set in the Midwest, as well as the Claire Gray series, which takes place in Palm Springs, California. Three of Craft’s novels have been honored as national finalists for Lambda Literary Awards. His latest mystery novel, The MacGuffin, features a new protagonist, architect Cooper Brant.
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