Boy Toy (34 page)

Following her, I asked, “Has it occurred to you that many people might find the circumstances of your brother’s policy suspicious?”

She threw the dirty water into the street, then turned to me. “I got lucky,” she said with a shrug, “that’s all.”

Neil and I met for lunch at First Avenue Grill, and I reported on my meetings with Denny and Mica.

He, in turn, reported on his attempt that morning to phone Roxanne at her Chicago law office. “They said she’d gone down to Springfield for a few days—can you imagine? I wonder what that’s all about.”

“Carl. Obviously.”

“Obviously—I can’t quite see Rox visiting Lincoln’s tomb. But what
about
Carl? Did she go to confront him, to ‘talk,’ or just to spend some time with him?”

I shook my head. “Only she can answer that. We’ll have to wait to hear from her.” In truth, I didn’t really care, not just then. As a friend, I owed Roxanne at least a sympathetic ear in her ongoing saga of romance-versus-commitment, but that Wednesday afternoon, I had weightier concerns on my mind.

Finishing lunch, I told Neil, “I have a meeting scheduled with Dr. Formhals later, down at the Public Safety Building. I need a refresher on the medical aspects of Jason’s death. But I have some spare time first—”

“Time to kill?” cracked Neil.

I smiled, but let it slide. “I think I’ll linger here at the Grill for a while. When the lunch crowd thins out, I want to talk to Nancy.”

“Be gentle,” he told me, grinning. “No rubber hose.”

“Not yet,” I assured him, returning his grin. My smirk, however, was triggered not by the image of Nancy Sanderson sweating out a brutal interrogation, but by my recent memory of Mica Thrush wound up in wet black tubing.

Neil stayed for an extra glass of iced tea while I had coffee, but he kept checking his watch. “Sorry, I need to get back. I’m sending Cynthia’s pavilion project out for bids today, and there’s a lot to wrap up this afternoon.”

We clasped hands over the table. I told him, “No need to keep me company. Get your work done. We’ll catch up tonight.”

He stood. “Early dinner, remember. Thad has rehearsal.”

I nodded. “I’ll give you a call if anything develops.”

We winked as a substitute for a kiss, then I watched him leave, never bored by the sight of him in motion.

Some twenty minutes later, the last of the other patrons had left the restaurant, and Nancy noticed that I alone remained. She crossed to my table with a tentative smile, asking, “Is everything all right, Mr. Manning? Is there something you need—more coffee, your check?” She whisked an imaginary fleck of lint from the sleeve of her neat silk suit.

I smiled. “Everything’s fine, thank you, Nancy. I was hoping, if you had a few minutes, we could talk awhile.”

Clearly, my request was unexpected, but after only a moment’s thought, Nancy bobbed her head. “Of course, Mr. Manning. My pleasure.” She added, “As long as it’s ‘just us,’ may I offer you a chilled glass of Lillet? I just might join you.”

Laughing, I replied, “How could I refuse such an offer?”

So she got the bottle and a pair of small glasses, then joined me at the table. As she poured a few ounces for each of us, she told me through a wan smile, “It seems very strange to be sitting with you.”

“I hope it’s not unpleasant.”

“Heavens
no
, Mr. Manning.” She recapped the bottle of Lillet. “I merely meant that you’ve dined here hundreds of times since your arrival in Dumont, and it’s always been my pleasure to
serve
you.”

“I understood what you meant.” Since she had offered the liquor and poured it, I expected her to signal that we should drink it—perhaps a casual toast—but her hands had left the table, resting demurely in her lap. So I took charge. Fingering the little glass (it resembled a juice glass, but was more delicate), I raised it slightly and told her, “After all this time, it’s a pleasure to get better acquainted.”

“It is indeed.” Her right hand left her lap, lifted her glass, and touched it to mine. We both sipped the blond, sweet, syrupy vermouth. She swallowed, then dabbed her lips. “Was there something in particular you wished to discuss?”

I nodded—the topic was difficult, and there was no point in dancing around it. “The death of Jason Thrush.”

“Ah.” She sat back a fraction of an inch. “I understand your concern.”

“You do?”

“Well”—her gaze wandered from mine as she searched for the words—“I understand there are circumstances that, in the eyes of some, might appear to implicate your nephew.” Quietly, she added, “I’m sorry, Mr. Manning.”

“I presume, then, you’ve read about the coroner’s report.”

“Certainly. I saw it in this morning’s paper. The very notion of mushroom poisoning seems terribly bizarre, don’t you think?”

“Yes, I do.” Shaking my head, I added, “It makes me wish that mushrooming was not among Thad’s various interests.”

She leaned toward me. “That’s precisely my point. Thad’s avid interest in mycology is rather well-known, and deservedly so. I’ve lectured many a year to the mushroom club at Central High, and he’s one of the brightest pupils I’ve encountered—to say nothing of his infectious enthusiasm for the subject.” She smiled. “I’m sure you’re very proud of him.”

I laughed at the irony. “I
would
be, of course. Unfortunately, this particular area of expertise only adds to the suspicions of those who already feel Thad had some sort of vendetta against Jason.”

Nancy lowered her eyes. “Yes, I heard about the, uh… threat.” She was doubtless tempted to add, It’s the talk of the town, but she spared me that insight.

I exhaled noisily, gathering my thoughts. “Nancy,” I began, uncertain how to broach this remark, “you seem to be fond of Thad, but I get the impression—from some things I’ve heard—that you disliked Jason Thrush.”

She sipped her Lillet before telling me, with no apparent emotion, “That’s correct. As you may know, I have something of a history with the Thrush family, and it has not been cordial.”

I nodded. “I’m aware of two painful incidents, one of them twelve years ago, the other more recent. I learned this only yesterday, and I was especially sorry to hear the circumstances of your husband’s death.”

“Thank you, Mr. Manning. My husband—his name was Leonard—had worked with Burton Thrush since the founding days of Typo-Tech. He was a chemical engineer and was largely responsible for developing some of the processes that enabled the business to capture the early market in phototypesetting. There was a computer team as well, of course, and Burton himself was a chemist, but it was ultimately Leonard who cinched the key formulas and processes. His contributions and loyalty were such that many people assumed he and Burton were partners in the business, but in fact, Leonard was simply a paid employee. He was very
well
paid, and the terms of his contract were generous, but he had no real stake in the business itself.”

“Burton had always been the sole owner, correct?” Flipping open a steno pad and uncapping my pen, I began to make a few notes.

She nodded once. “Yes. Burton’s ownership was never in dispute.”

“What
was
in dispute?”

She thumped her fingers on the table. “Issues of decency, honor, simple justice. That sounds rather vague, I’m sure. Specifically at issue were the terms of Leonard’s contract—after he died.”

“He died too young, I know. But how? Was it related to his work?”

Her head wobbled. “We don’t really know. He was forty-six; I was forty-five. He took gravely ill with a liver condition that was unbeatable, at least back then. There was talk of a transplant, but the disease progressed too quickly, and Leonard died within a month of the diagnosis. He had a family history of late-life liver problems, so he was prone to the condition, but his lab work with experimental chemistry may well have triggered the final sclerosis. If you’re asking whether I
blame
Burton for Leonard’s death, no, I don’t. But I do blame Burton for making
my
life a living hell after Leonard died.”

I paused in my note-taking to sip the Lillet. “There was supposed to be some sort of death settlement?”

“Yes, from the very beginning, but it turned out there had been some legalistic oversights in Leonard’s initial employment contract with Burton, and since the company was entering a period of decline, Burton took full advantage of those loopholes. Leonard had devoted himself heart and soul to that business, but when he died, despite his considerable ‘sweat equity,’ I got virtually nothing.”

“Did you take Burton to court?”

“You bet. But he had good lawyers, and the written contract was faulty, and he just plain lied about his verbal agreements with Leonard. I lost—not only the lawsuit, but a comfortable future as well. With no children to lean on, I had to enter the workforce.” She drank the last of the Lillet in her glass, then tapped the bottle, as if to ask me, More?

I accepted with a nod, and she poured a bit more for both of us.

“I had never much
liked
Burton, but after the showdown in court, I must confess, I hated the man. Two years later, when his wife, Patricia, died in a car accident, I was sorry for her, but I found great joy in his misery. His failing health has also brightened my spirits.”

“And the death of his son?”

She smiled. “You’re too perceptive, Mr. Manning.” She raised her glass, toasting destiny: “What goes around, comes around.”

Though my mouth felt dry, I could not quite bring myself to join her as she drank. Instead, I sat back, watching her. “Unless I’m mistaken, the justice you find in Jason’s death is sort of a double payback.”

“Yes,” she confirmed flatly, “it is.” She leaned forward on the table, resting her weight on her elbows, and I realized she had begun to feel the alcohol. “Did you hear what happened? It was shortly before you took over the
Register
.”

I nodded. “Jason did some damage here at the Grill.”

She snorted. “That’s an understatement. It was two years ago, come October. Late one evening, Jason and some teammates came in. They had been carousing and were already drunk, needing food. I was inclined not to serve them, but in truth, we were afraid to refuse, given their condition. On top of which, I figured, a good hot meal would take the edge off their drunkenness, so they were served. As soon as the meal was under way, though, Jason demanded liquor, and then the others did as well. My staff and I naturally refused—not only because the boys were already far too drunk, but because they were clearly underage.”

“And then they got…rowdy?”

“Rowdy? With Jason as their ringleader, they practically
destroyed
the place. I was shut down for two weeks for repairs. Burton would barely admit that his son was in any way to blame; he claimed I was falsely accusing Jason out of spite for our own previous run-in. Ultimately, grudgingly, Burton did pay for the repairs, but he
refused
to make any restitution for those two weeks of lost business.”

I shook my head. “Nice guy. You should have sued him, Nancy.”

“Yes, I probably should have. The sad truth, though, is that I feared losing to him in court again. I had thought I’d easily win the case over Leonard’s death settlement, but I didn’t. I was drained of all confidence in confronting Burton. It was easier to cut my losses.”

“Exactly as he wanted.”

She nodded, then lifted her glass and drank.

I leaned forward on the table. “So when Jason died, you shed no tears.”

“Please.” She laughed. “I’m not the least bit sorry that Jason is dead, and I’m delighted to watch Burton suffer through yet another tragedy that has befallen the house of Thrush. But”—she leaned within inches of me and spoke with slow, deliberate resolve—“I. Did. Not. Kill. Jason.”

Unprepared for this statement, which seemed to both read my mind and counter my unspoken thoughts, I stammered guiltily, “No one ever meant, uh… I never meant to accuse…”

“Mr. Manning.” Her flat inflection was candid and unemotional. “I have never made a secret of my intense dislike for the Thrushes. Objectively speaking, I’d have had a strong motive to kill Jason, and many people know it. When I read this morning that Jason was the apparent victim of mushroom poisoning, I realized at once that suspicion could begin to focus on me, much as it has focused on your nephew, Thad; this is borne out by your invitation today, for the first time ever, to sit and talk with you. Your reasoning in these suspicions is solid. My affection for local mushrooms and their culinary purposes is, I daresay, legendary. The flip side of ingesting wild mushrooms is avoiding the poisonous ones, so it’s only logical to assume that I am well acquainted with the fly agaric and the entire
Amanita
family—which indeed I am. If you’d care to step outside, I can point out specimens growing within a hundred yards of the door, right downtown.”

I cleared my throat. “That won’t be necessary, Nancy. I trust your expertise.”

Still leaning near me, she picked up her glass and drank the last of her Lillet; I did likewise. Swallowing, she breathed heavily, then told me, “I had a motive to kill Jason, and I had a working knowledge of the mushrooms that killed him—but so did Thad. You seem eager to believe that Thad could not have committed this crime. I’m asking you to believe that I too am a gudgeon of circumstance.” Having stated her case, she again breathed heavily, then sat back in her chair, watching me.

I remained propped on my elbows, leaning over our empty glasses. The calm features of my face surely gave no hint that my mind was in a spin. These dizzying thoughts were not the result of alcohol, nor were they caused by Nancy’s words. No, a scent hung there at the table, sweet and flowery, which at first I assumed to be that of the liquor, perhaps carried on Nancy’s breath or even my own.

No, I realized, what I smelled was Nancy’s perfume. It was saccharine, feminine, and cloying—much like the fragrance that lingered in Jason’s room after his death. Once again, the smell triggered a vague memory from many years back.

But I just couldn’t place it.

By the time I left First Avenue Grill, I was nearly late for my meeting with Coroner Formhals, so I hopped into my car and drove the few blocks to the Public Safety Building, which also housed the sheriff’s department. As luck would have it, just as I arrived, someone pulled out of a space not far from the front entrance. I parked at the curb and trotted from the car to the door, glancing at my watch. It was exactly two o’clock; I was on time.