Boy Toy (25 page)

Neil said, “You really ought to go professional, Frank, and open a massage service. Since you truly enjoy it, it might make a nice sideline. I’m sure you’d attract a loyal clientele.”

“He’d better not,” said Cynthia with a good-natured shake of her fist.

Frank walked over to her and put an arm around her. “Nah,” he told Neil. “I have only one client—and I like it that way.”

Then I knew without doubt: I’d been way off base about ulterior purposes that evening. My fantasy had been exactly that. It wasn’t gonna happen.

Cynthia gestured to our surroundings. “This is our own private world. Thanks to you, Neil, we’ll soon be trading up to a much more lavish little world, but the point is, this is
our
special pleasure.”

“What happens here,” said Frank, “is sort of the glue of our marriage.” He gave Cynthia a soft kiss.

She purred. “It’s better than sex, honest to God. Hell, I’m forty-three; my clock’s stopped. This is what’s left, and I love it.” She returned his soft kiss.

I was beginning to feel like something of a voyeur—we didn’t know these people
that
well, in spite of our mutual desire to foster a friendship.

“But
you
get all the fun,” Neil razzed Cynthia.

“Nope,” said Frank, shaking his head. “I get plenty out of it. It’s a fair exchange. Cynthia provides the setting, buys the equipment, and keeps up with the supplies”—he gestured toward the luxurious inventory of lotions and oils—“while I get to hone my skills on a loving partner. What’s wrong with that?”

“Not a thing,” I told them, smiling, genuinely warmed by the knowledge that they shared such pleasure in the life they’d built together. Though they had no way of knowing, I also felt genuinely ashamed for having entertained notions of invading their sanctuary.

Frank continued, “And once the pavilion is built, things will be even better.”

Cynthia agreed, telling Neil, “The new spa is an absolute knockout.”

“But the best part,” said Frank, “is the home office. Cynthia should be able to spend more time here.”

“God, I hope so,” she said with a wistful laugh. “This Tuesday-through-Friday schedule in Green Bay is getting to be a real drag. I finally took an apartment there, but I can’t wait to get rid of it.” She tweaked Frank’s earlobe. “I hope you won’t be feeling too abandoned again tomorrow.”

“Not at all,” he assured her. Then he told us, “During the school year, the goofy schedule is no problem—I’m busy during the week at Woodlands, often on campus in the evening. Summers can get lonely, though. That’s why I got involved with the Players Guild.”

Neil said, “And now
that’s
wrapping up.
Teen Play
closes next weekend.”

“Yeah,” Frank conceded, “things’ll quiet down now. There’s a pickup rehearsal on Wednesday night, but otherwise, my week’s wide open.”

I offered, “Join us at the house some night. Do you mind dinner en
famille
?”

“Not at all. That sounds great.”

Neil suggested, “How about Thursday?”

“Perfect.”

Cynthia said, “You guys are too sweet, looking after dollface for me.” She pinched his nose. “But right now, I need to check on
tonight’s
dinner.”

“Can we give you a hand?” offered Neil.

“Everything’s under control, but sure—it’s always a bit of a rush, getting things to the table.”

So the four of us adjourned to the kitchen, where we all pitched in with the last-minute tasks of staging our meal. Cynthia fussed with her mushroom dish; Frank tended to the crown roast of lamb (the Margaux we had brought would complement it beautifully); I whisked a vinaigrette for the salad; Neil rearranged flowers and took charge of the table’s final setting. When Cynthia decreed that her concoction, oyster mushrooms Mornay, was ready to serve, we moved the party to the dining room.

We had plenty of elbow room. The table could have seated eight, ten in a pinch, so Neil’s setting didn’t skimp on the side plates, stemware, or silver. He’d split the flowers into two low arrangements and placed them at the ends of the table, allowing the four of us to huddle in the middle, with the Geldens on one side, us facing them. Neil had scattered perhaps a dozen votive candles about the table, giving it a casual air and a festive glow.

Since Cynthia was already well into the chardonnay, the rest of us joined her in this choice to accompany the Mornay, which contained shrimp—as well as the oyster mushrooms she’d found on a wet log behind the garage. To my surprise, I found her recipe thoroughly delicious. The earthy, robust texture of the mushrooms combined with the crunch of shrimp and the snap of pea pods in a delightful mélange with creamy, garlicky pasta.

Sampling my first forkful, I swallowed, dabbed my mouth with the corner of a giant linen napkin, and said, “Cynthia, I’m amazed. I was skeptical, but your Mornay is wonderful.”

She accepted my compliment with a nod, lifting her wineglass. After sipping, she told me, “I just
knew
you’d like it—but why were you skeptical?”

I glanced at Neil first, then sheepishly answered, “Well, the mushrooms. It seems everyone around here is ‘into’ them. Mushrooming is a great hobby, I guess, but I’ve always been wary of it. Where I was brought up, mushrooms came from supermarkets and restaurants, not the backyard.”

The others laughed, Cynthia the most heartily. “I know where you’re coming from, Mark. Before I married Frank, my idea of harvesting mushrooms was limited to the challenge of prying Saran Wrap off the package. I wonder why people get so ‘funny’ about wild mushrooms.”

Neil answered bluntly, “Fear of an agonizing death.”

“Oh, sure,
that
,” said Frank with comic nonchalance, dismissing the issue with a flick of his hand. Then he put down his fork. “Seriously, mycophobia is a typically English trait that seems to have been inherited by America and dispersed through the melting pot. There’s really nothing to fear, though. Any well-trained mushroom hunter knows enough basic mycology to distinguish between edible and poisonous mushrooms—and he knows never to gamble when he’s not sure. The basic tool is a good field guide. Beyond that, spore tests provide the most reliable method of identification. Sometimes, the spore color can be identified by the use of light and dark papers used as contrasting backgrounds; other times, a microscope is required.”

I was tempted to ask, Why bother? Don’t pick mushrooms; buy them.

Frank continued, “Fear of mushrooms seems to be giving way to a wave of interest, with mushroom clubs popping up everywhere now. Fungus Amongus, Thad’s club at Central High, is a good example; its membership has risen steadily every year I’ve served as adviser. We try to combine rigorous textbook training with the fun of the hunt, and the kids love it. What’s more, we add practical lessons by outside lecturers.”

Cynthia said, “Like Nancy, right?”

“Sure, Nancy Sanderson, owner of First Avenue Grill.” Frank turned to us. “You know her, don’t you, guys?”

“We’re there all the time,” said Neil.

I asked, “What does Nancy teach the club?”

Cynthia said, “Recipes, of course—what else? In fact, Nancy and I have exchanged any number of mushroom recipes over the years. She’s a great gal.”

Frank clarified, “Nancy doesn’t exactly use her time at the club to swap recipes. She visits once each year to lecture on the do’s and don’ts of cooking with local wild mushrooms. She’s very thorough. Passionate too.”

Tentatively, I asked, “Does she cover bad mushrooms as well as edible ones?”

“Certainly, that’s an essential part of the drill. I’ll be the first to concede, though, that mushrooming wasn’t always so ‘scientific’ as it is today. Much of what used to pass as knowledge was essentially folklore. I remember when I was little, my grandfather thought his testing method was state-of-the-art. Get this: he kept an old silver dollar to throw into the pot whenever he boiled mushrooms.”

“Huh?” asked Neil and I.

“Whatever for?” asked Cynthia, turning to face Frank.

“If the silver tarnished, the mushrooms were exposed as toadstools and thrown out.”

We all chuckled at this, but Cynthia stopped short, telling Frank, “That makes a certain amount of sense though. If your grandfather’s coin tarnished, it was probably due to an interaction between the silver and hydrogen cyanide or sulfide, which are components of many mushroom toxins.”

How, I wondered, did Cynthia know that? I understood that she’d learned mushrooming from Frank, but her grasp of these particulars of chemistry struck me as beyond the realm of a mere enthusiast.

“Yes,” Frank was saying, “but the test wasn’t foolproof. Silver can react that way with some good mushrooms as well as many bad ones; conversely, some deadly mushrooms would produce no chemical interaction with silver.”

“True,” said Cynthia, nodding, “but still, the test had
some
scientific basis.”

“Excuse me,” I said, intruding on their academic discourse, “but I have to tell you, Cynthia, I’m impressed. You knew
nothing
about mushrooms when you met Frank, and now you’re talking like Mr. Wizard.”

“But, Mark,” she said, breaking into laughter, “I’m a molecular biologist.”

Neil asked, “You
are
?”

Then Cynthia and Frank leaned together. Wagging their heads in unison, they singsonged, “Birds of a feather!” The routine looked well practiced.

Neil said, “I thought you worked for a cell-phone company.”

“Neil!” she scolded through a laugh. “BayCell Industries is a biotech company. We develop bioengineering and DNA technologies that have many applications in industry. You thought I sold
phones
?”

Neil echoed her laughter. “God, Cynthia, I’m sorry. I guess we never discussed your work.”

Frank explained, “That’s what brought us together. Not quite nine years ago, I put a call in to BayCell, asking if they could provide a guest lecturer to discuss some of the practical applications of molecular biology. They sent Cynthia to visit my class at Woodlands.”

She looked at him with goo-goo eyes, a fawning smile.

“And the rest,” she told us, “is history.”

S
OMETIME AFTER MIDNIGHT, CLOSER
to one, Neil and I arrived home, switched out a few lights that had been left on, and climbed the stairs together.

Our evening with the Geldens had been thoroughly enjoyable. We’d lingered for hours at the table—through the mushroom course, the meat course, the salad, dessert, then coffee. The meal was splendid, conversation nonstop, laughter frequent. I was glad they had invited us; not only did Neil and I discover strong potential for our future friendship with them, but I’d gleaned some immediate rewards as well.

I now knew, for instance, that if Jason Thrush had been poisoned by mushrooms, the fatal fungus was most likely fly agaric. I also knew that any student member of Fungus Amongus would have sufficient knowledge to harvest the fly agaric and put it to use—including Tommy Morales, who resented the victim’s affluence and coveted his role in a small-town theatrical production. What’s more, I’d learned that restaurateur Nancy Sanderson, who apparently harbored animosity toward the victim, was considered an expert in the do’s and don’ts of preparing local wild mushrooms for consumption. And on a different note entirely, I’d figured out that Neil’s cryptic promise of a fantasy masseur had been inspired by Frank Gelden’s hobby of pleasuring his wife.

These were all, in a sense, promising developments, but they could not outweigh my mounting concern for Thad. In the three days since Jason’s death, my nephew had come under heavy suspicion, and his friend Kwynn had clued me that my fears were well-founded: though Thad was still attempting to maintain a facade of indifference, the speculation and gossip of his peers had clearly gotten to him. The possibility of severe emotional damage seemed very real. Even worse, I now had to wonder if there was any possibility that Thad might face arrest. There was nothing imaginary about the tide that was turning against him. The ugly, prank phone call was proof enough for me, and the attack by a vengeful gang of jock thugs was proof enough for Thad—he was in a real predicament. This mess was not simply going to “go away,” and in fact, it was getting worse.

On top of everything else, there was the stash of fly agaric I’d spotted in his bedroom. Surely there was an innocent explanation—a class project, no doubt. Surely the hidden jar of poisonous mushrooms was not what it implied.

Though it was late, and though a busy day awaited me at the
Register
, I had more than enough on my mind to keep me up and thinking for a few hours.

“All in all,” said Neil as we reached the top of the stairs, “I’d say the evening was a total success.”

Stepping from the hall into our bedroom, I forced myself to dismiss my vexations and told him, “Any evening I spend with you is a total success. What more do I need?”

“God, you’re full of it.” He laughed softly, closing the door. Stepping near, he gave me a hug and a kiss—a friendly kiss, nothing passionate.

“In terms of your architectural practice, the evening was decidedly successful. Cynthia bought your plans, right?”

“Hook, line, and sinker. The design phase is complete, and she gave me the go-ahead to send the project out for bids.”

“Must be exciting for you.”

“Every project is, but this one in particular. The pavilion has—what?—sort of a fantasy element about it. Clients like Cynthia, who are open to such expressive design, don’t come along every day.”

I sat on the bed to remove my shoes. “Speaking of fantasy, I became suddenly aware this evening of what inspired your promised payback.”

Coyly, he asked, “Are you referring to my debt of honor?”

“I am. ‘Fantasy masseur,’ indeed. It seems you’ve had Frank on your mind.”

“
I’ll
say,” he confessed without shame.

“I have to admit, he gives a certain kind of guy—guys like us—plenty to think about.” I stood, removing my shirt. With a laugh, I told Neil, “In fact, at one point tonight, I was convinced that Frank was my fantasy masseur, that you’d somehow managed to deliver him as your surprise payback.”