Boy Toy (22 page)

Pierce told me, “I understand Lucille Haring has an interview with Vernon this afternoon.”

“Right after lunch,” Formhals added. “I’ll walk back to the
Register
’s offices with you, if you don’t mind, Mark.”

“Not at all, Doctor; I’d be honored. I knew Lucy planned to call you, but I didn’t know when you were meeting.”

Neil entered the conversation, asking anyone, “Some new development?”

I answered, “Not that I know of.”

Formhals shook his head. “No, your editor simply wanted some clarification on the preliminary report I issued yesterday afternoon.”

I had of course asked Lucy to interview him because if I did so myself, he would correctly assume my motive to be protection of Thad, not news-gathering. I told him, “The
Register
hasn’t printed anything regarding your mushroom theory yet. When we discussed it by phone on Saturday, it seemed speculative at best. Then, on Sunday, your report left me confused.”

He leaned forward on his elbows. “Then
ask
me, Mark.” He smiled.

As long as he had opened the door, I was tempted to take a few notes, but I felt he might remain more candid if I left this discussion off-the-record. I recapped, “On the basis of Jason’s symptoms, you told us on Saturday that you suspected mushroom poisoning. In yesterday’s report, you said that analysis of Jason’s stomach contents did not reveal the presence of mushrooms. But you drew no conclusions from this, awaiting the results of toxicology tests.”

“That’s absolutely correct.” He nodded.

Neil gave me a look that asked, So…?

“So,” I continued, “if there were no mushrooms in Jason’s stomach, what could the toxicology tests reveal? Are you now exploring some other angle?”

He shook his head. “Mushroom poisoning is still my best theory. Had I actually
found
the mushrooms, that would have cinched it. It didn’t work out that way, so it now remains for toxicology to prove or disprove the theory.”

Pierce asked the question I’d been trying to ask: “If there weren’t mushrooms in Jason’s stomach, doesn’t
that
disprove the theory?”

Again the coroner shook his head. “Some mushroom toxins are slow-acting. The mushrooms themselves could have been ingested and passed through the intestines days earlier, leaving the toxins to do their work.”

Neil nodded, taking an analytical interest in this unappetizing discussion. He asked, “What about vomit?”

“The subject had not recently vomited. His throat was clogged with mucus, remember, but there was no residue of regurgitation.”

“Now then,” said Nancy, reappearing at our table, “let me tell you about today’s special.”

We all turned to her with sheepish smiles, as if caught in the midst of a lewd discussion. Though I was no longer hungry, I tried to look interested.

“I’m particularly proud of this recipe—it’s so fresh and so seasonal.” She clasped her hands together and instinctively ran her tongue, once, across her upper lip. “I call it king bolete thermidor.”

Neil arched a brow. “Sounds interesting. What’s in it?”

“King boletes, of course—
Boletus edulis
, more popularly known as porcini.”

“Ah.” I should have guessed. “Mushrooms.”

“The king bolete is, for mushroom hunters, one of summer’s richest rewards. Highly prized by gourmets, the handsome, smooth-capped bolete is large, firm, and meaty. Yesterday afternoon, I discovered a bounty of these choice edibles in a small pine grove not far from my home. After a bit of experimentation, I hit upon a thermidor recipe that complements their bacony flavor and succulent aroma
perfectly
—if you’ll pardon my immodesty.” She cast her gaze downward.

The four of us exchanged a glance.

“Thank you, Nancy,” I told her. “That’s tempting, but I think we’ll need a few more minutes with the menu.”

Later that afternoon, I was at work in my office at the
Register
, poring over an ever thicker file of notes and research regarding the circumstances of Jason Thrush’s death. A rap on the doorjamb interrupted my thoughts.

“I’m finished with Coroner Formhals,” Lucy told me from the doorway.

I waved her in. “Anything beyond what he told me at lunch?”

She shook her head, sitting across from me at my desk. Reading from a steno pad, she recounted their entire interview. The bottom line was the same: the coroner’s best theory was still mushroom poisoning, and it would remain so until disproven by toxicology.

Looking up from her notes, she saw that my attention had returned to the file on my desk. “Still with me?”

With a soft laugh, I said, “Sorry, Lucy. It’s just that the forensics seem stalled for now—at least till Formhals gets those test results. Since lunch, I’ve been preoccupied with a new angle.”

“Oh? Care to share it?” She sat back, wedging a bright yellow pencil between her ear and a short shock of her bright red hair. She twitched her head inquisitively. For a moment, I saw her as an exotic bird.

Blinking this image from my mind, I asked, “Care to do a bit of digging?”

Her grin confirmed her readiness. Though I’d taught her the ropes of journalism here on the job in Dumont, she’d arrived with formidable research skills, and more often than not, it was I who now depended on
her
, not vice versa. She asked, “Who’s our subject?”

“Nancy Sanderson. I know nothing about the woman, except that she owns First Avenue Grill and, like half the town, seems mushroom-crazed. But who
is
she? And what’s behind her apparent animosity toward Jason Thrush?”

A glint of interest. “Animosity?”

I recounted Nancy’s harsh comment about Jason that I’d overheard in the theater lobby. “Then today, at lunch, she was all giddy and gabbing about Thad in the play, without even mentioning Jason’s death, which at least merits lip service, regardless of how she felt about him. Her behavior, in a word, seems suspicious.”

Lucy made a note. “I’ll get right on it. Anything else?”

“Nope. Not right now.”

She stood. “Then I’ll leave you with your thoughts.” And she did.

My thoughts led me back to my file, which in turn led me back to that morning’s visit to the Thrush house. I picked up the phone, dialed the sheriff’s department, identified myself, and asked for Doug Pierce.

Within moments, he answered, “Hi, Mark. You just caught me. What’s up?”

“That whole encounter with Mica Thrush this morning—I told Neil about her contention that Jason was gay, and after we talked about it, Neil seemed to think she might be on the level.”

“If it’s true, it’s an intriguing wrinkle, to say the least.”

“What do you think of the Denny Diggins angle?”

He reminded me, “I have no firm reason to think that Jason Thrush died of anything but natural causes.”

I paused. “I hope you’re right.”

“Even if toxicology should point to foul play, I see no point in tipping our hand to Diggins and putting him on early alert.”

“You’re right. There’s no urgency, at least with regard to Denny. If Jason was murdered, and if Denny did it, he’d be unlikely to bolt out of town during the run of his own play—he’s too egotistical. He’ll stay put through the weekend.”

Having said that, I felt that I’d just set a deadline for the investigation. Certainly, we didn’t want to lose sight of Denny Diggins, but more important, I feared that the second weekend of
Teen Play
could be devastating for Thad if suspicion still hung over him.

It was time to wrap this up. But how?

Upstairs on Prairie Street, Neil and I spiffed for our evening at the Geldens’. Neil had suggested that our dinner date warranted a second shave and shower, so we gabbed while tending to these ablutions in the white-tile bath adjoining our bedroom. Rinsing his razor, Neil asked, “Did you hear from Roxanne today?”

“We said our good-byes in the kitchen; I was on my way out, and she had just come down for coffee. Nothing since then.” I was a step ahead of Neil, brushing my still-damp hair. Peering sidelong into the mirror, I examined the creep of silver through my temples. To my surprise, I liked the look of it.

He laughed softly—
carefully
—while shaving his chin. “I half expected her to phone from the car. She seemed so distraught over the whole move-in business.”

I paused. Looking him in the eye (in the mirror, that is), I told him, “I’ll bet she was just worried about
our
reaction. She needed some reassurance that we wouldn’t think less of her for…for giving away a part of herself.”

He stopped shaving. “You mean, giving herself to another man? Were we supposed to be jealous?”

I shrugged. “Maybe. The three of us have had some ‘romantic dynamics’ at work over the years, but I doubt if she feels we’re in any way threatened by Carl. When I said that she’d be giving away a part of herself, I was referring to her edge, her independence.”

“Don’t count on it!”

I laughed, explaining, “In our eyes, ‘she’ will suddenly become ‘they.’ ”

Neil nodded. “True enough. We won’t think
less
of her, though.”

I repeated, “She needed some reassurance.”

He rinsed his face. “Did we handle it all right?”

“Think so. Hope so.” I was finished at the sink. We were both shower-naked. I asked, “This isn’t dressy tonight, is it?”

He eyed me askance. “You can’t go like
that
.” With a grin, he continued, “Cynthia said, ‘Just us, just casual, just friends at home,’ or words to that effect.” He dabbed on some Vétiver, and the scent seemed amplified in the steamy confines of the bathroom.

“Khakis, then?”

“What else?”

While dressing in the bedroom, my thoughts began to focus on the evening ahead. “Not to dampen tonight’s festivities, but I’m really curious to find out what Frank learned about mushroom poisoning. I can’t imagine there’s any sort of scenario that would point to Thad.”

Neil pulled a soft yellow knit shirt over his head and smoothed the collar. “Even if Jason was deliberately poisoned with mushrooms—murdered—Thad’s interest in mycology is no indictment. Mushrooming is an uncommonly popular pastime in Dumont. Seems goofy to me, but
lots
of people here have that specialized knowledge.”

“Including”—I looked up from buckling my watch band—“every kid in town who’s been a member of Fungus Amongus.”

Neil arched a brow. “Is Thad still home? Let’s ask who else is in the club.”

I shook my head. “He left an hour ago, going over to Kwynn’s, I think.”

“Frank can fill us in. We’ll just have to wait till—”

“
I
know”—finger snap. “Thad’s yearbook. What’s it called?
Central Times
.”

Neil said, “I know where he keeps them—the bookcase next to his dresser.”

And we left the bedroom together, headed for Thad’s room across the hall, near the back of the house.

His door was wide open, so we had no qualms about entering. During the time we’d lived in the same house, I was amazed to watch the transformation of Thad’s quarters. In the beginning, his room was little more than a spartan cell, reflecting a tenant with few interests and low self-esteem. He was innately neat, and that didn’t change, but as he blossomed—as a student, as an actor, as a
person
—so did his lair. I was struck now by how different this space was from the bedroom occupied by Jason Thrush, which had seemed as sterile as a hotel room. Thad’s room had character. Books, magazines, and CDs abounded. Clippings and posters covered the walls. Stacks of play programs and scripts shared space on his cramped but well-organized desk. And a new stack I noticed—college catalogs—made me catch my breath. Was there really only a year left?

My eyes drifted to the window, where I noticed an array of mushrooms that had been collected, jarred, and labeled for study, lined up on the sill. I hadn’t seen them at first, as they were obscured by the foliage of a large potted schefflera. Taking a closer look, I had to chuckle. To my untutored eye, all the mushrooms looked essentially alike—earthy, gray, and rubbery—with the exception of one variety that was downright pretty, with reddish caps, spotted white.

“Here we are,” said Neil, picking up three volumes of
Central Times.
Checking the contents page of the most recent edition, he mumbled, “Clubs,” and flipped to the back of the book.

I stepped close as he turned the pages. Band Boosters. Chess Chums. Debate. Friends of French. Aha—Fungus Amongus.

“Good
grief
,” said Neil, gawking at the large photo. “There must be thirty members—I had no idea.” Front and center was Frank Gelden, faculty adviser, wearing a handsome smile and a bush jacket. Neil tapped his finger on a face in the front row. “There’s Thad.”

Otherwise, the members of the mushroom club were just faces in a crowd. I’d need to read the long caption to see if there were any familiar names. As I began to do this, though, from the corner of my eye, a face behind Thad—directly behind him—caught my attention.

Neil saw it too. “Hey, it’s Tommy Morales.”

“I’ll be damned—the understudy who got lucky. Chances are, Tommy knows as much about mushrooms as Thad does.”

“He’s a year younger,” Neil reminded me.

“But Thad’s been in the club for only a year.”

“True…”

“Read through the caption, Neil. You know Thad’s theater crowd better than I do. Are there any other members of Fungus Amongus who are also involved with the Players Guild?”

He took a moment to peruse the long lines of small type.

Looking up, he told me, “Not a one.”

Driving out of town on county highway B, we agreed that it was a perfect evening for our informal soirée at the Geldens’. It was a few minutes before eight; night would not fall for another hour, but the sun had swung low in a clear sky that bled from indigo to copper.

“Their driveway is just ahead,” Neil told me. “There, on the left.” A generic rural mailbox marked the entrance, giving no clue to the lavish grounds that lay within, well hidden from the road. “This really
is
an estate,” I said, recalling the comment I’d made earlier that day in Neil’s office. “The money in the family must be Cynthia’s. Biology professors at extension campuses aren’t
that
well paid.”