Boy Toy (39 page)

Pierce asked, “But something went wrong?”

“Yes.” Bitterness colored Frank’s voice as he spoke to the floor. “Jason, you see, was not only beautiful, but he knew it. There was a certain arrogance about him, and for a while, I chalked it off as something of a birthright, the price of his beauty. It didn’t stop at arrogance, though. He was petty as well. And when arrogance is combined with pettiness, it produces vindictiveness, a mean streak.”

I couldn’t help marvel that it had taken Frank all summer to discover this; the darker side of Jason Thrush was apparent to me the first night I’d seen him. But then, I hadn’t been blinded by lust.

“After a point,” Frank continued, “our relationship became strained, at least from his perspective. I don’t know why—perhaps he got bored, perhaps he was ready to find something ‘better.’ In any event, he threatened, just for the hell of it, to expose the whole affair. It goes without saying, that would spell the end of both my marriage and my teaching career, so I got panicky.”

I said, “And that’s when you concocted the deadly tincture of fly agaric and witch hazel.”

He looked up and told me flatly, calmly, “No. I did no such thing. I confess, I
thought
about the possibility of killing Jason, but I never acted on it because, ultimately, I just couldn’t—I loved him.”

Pierce asked, “Do you deny giving Jason Thrush a massage last Friday?”

Frank answered without emotion, without squirming, “As a matter of fact, I
did
give Jason a massage on Friday afternoon, finishing it off with witch hazel. I asked him to the house that day in hopes of effecting a reconciliation. I also thought that a long, soothing massage and sauna might help get him in shape for that night’s performance. But it was
not
my intent to kill him, and the witch hazel had
not
been tainted by mushrooms—or anything else. I was surprised as anyone to learn later that night that Jason was dead.”

Pierce scratched behind his ear. “Do you expect us to believe that, Frank? All the circumstances clearly, logically line up against you.”

Frank threw his hands in the air. “I gave Tommy the same massage today, the same rubdown with witch hazel. He’s fine.”

“Get up, Frank. You’re under arrest.”

Frank stood. “For
what
, for God’s sake?”

“Criminal sexual conduct, multiple counts.” Pierce produced a pair of handcuffs. “And suspicion of murder.”

B
ARB TURNED TO ME
from the sink with the coffeepot. “Whataya
mean
, ‘Frank won’t be coming to dinner tonight’? I’ve busted my ass.” Neil didn’t say a word. He’d heard the whole story in bed after I’d returned late from the theater. Now, preparing for a rushed breakfast, he buttered toast. Thad was still in bed. Doug Pierce was probably at the gym for his morning workout, but he would not be paying his usual visit to the house on Prairie Street; he was meeting me at the
Register
’s offices promptly at eight. The Thursday paper lay there on the kitchen table, carrying not a word about the events of the previous night; I had left the theater well after the front-page deadline, and besides, even now, the story was incomplete.

Succinctly, I explained to Barb, “Frank’s in jail.”

“Huh?”

“Let’s just say I should have listened to you yesterday—about the marriage of convenience. You were right. Frank’s gay.”

Barb beaded me with a sly stare, seating herself next to me at the table. “They don’t lock people up for being gay, Mark, at least not in Wisconsin, last I heard.”

Neil broke his silence with a laugh, then buttered more toast.

“Look, this is not for public consumption, at least not yet.” I paused—the whole mess was embarrassingly sordid. “It seems Frank has something of a history of intimacy with underage boys, behind his wife’s back, of course. One of those boys was Jason Thrush.”

Barb’s eyes widened with interest as she poured coffee for Neil and me.

I continued, “There was sufficient circumstantial evidence for Doug to arrest Frank on suspicion of murder. He was held overnight, and the DA is still reviewing the case, deciding if he wants to permit bail.”

Barb whistled, mulling this turn of events. “What’d wifey-poo say?”

Neil ate toast.

After a quick slurp of coffee, I answered, “Cynthia was on the job in Green Bay, but Doug and I managed to track down her apartment. Sometime after midnight, we reached her there by phone.” Unnecessarily, I added, “She wasn’t happy.”

“I’ll bet. Where is she now?”

“She should be back in Dumont by now. She was shocked, of course—angry and confused. Even if bail is allowed, she threatened not to post it. As a courtesy to a friend, I offered to keep everything out of today’s paper; in truth, it was already too late to run anything. I suggested that she come to my office this morning so we could discuss the paper’s handling of the story.”

Barb’s brows arched. “That was big of you.”

Neil ate more toast.

“It was the least I could do. It’s one of those ‘sensitive’ stories—bound to be inflammatory—and both Cynthia and Frank have been generous with their friendship. So we booked a meeting for eight-fifteen.”

Neil swallowed. “She’s always punctual.”

Drinking more coffee, I checked my watch. “Yeah, I’d better run. I need to meet with Doug first; he’ll be at my office in ten minutes.” I rose.

Barb also got up from the table. Moving to the refrigerator to grab a diet soda, she paused, suggesting, “If Cindy has no dinner plans, ask her over.”

Though it was just past eight o’clock when I climbed the stairs from the lobby, activity in the
Register
’s newsroom was already in full swing. I’d phoned Lucy overnight to tell her the situation with Frank, and she had suggested extra staffing that morning as the story continued to break. Our readers wouldn’t learn the details for another twenty-four hours, but when they did, we wanted them fully informed.

I could see that Doug Pierce had already arrived; he sat with Lucy inside the glass wall of my outer office. Crossing the newsroom, I noticed them hunkering over something on the low table that anchored the several upholstered chairs. Entering, I laughed upon discovering the object of their attention.

“Morning, Mark,” said Lucy. “Prune!”

Pierce was sitting with his back to me. Turning, he said with a smile, “Hey, Mark. Kringle?”

I asked skeptically, “Prune?”

“Yeah.” He licked frosting from a finger. “Thought I’d try it—it’s good.”

“Great with coffee,” confirmed Lucy. A pot with several stacked mugs sat there on a tray. She poured for me.

“Thanks.” I sat between them. Deigning to try a small slice of the brown-smeared Danish, I admitted, “Not bad.”

Lucy flipped open a folder and ran over her notes. “Cynthia Dunne-Gelden arrives at eight-fifteen, correct?”

I nodded, glancing at my watch. “She’s habitually prompt—she’ll be here in ten minutes.” I grabbed a steno pad from the side table and removed from a pocket my pet pen, the antique Montblanc. “Have you prepared a list of interview questions?”

“A few,” said Lucy. “Once we get rolling, I assume we’ll just wing it.”

“A reasonable assumption,” I agreed.

Pierce clapped crumbs from his hands. “My phone call—it’ll get through?”

Lucy nodded, grabbing the phone on the conference table. “I’ll make sure.” She punched zero, then waited a few seconds. “Hi, Connie. Two things. First, we’re up in Mark’s outer office with Sheriff Pierce. A woman is coming in shortly, Cynthia Dunne-Gelden. She has a meeting with Mark, so let me know when she arrives, and I’ll come down for her. Second, the sheriff is expecting an important call”—Lucy paused, checking her notes—“shortly after eight-thirty. Be sure to put it through to this extension, but no other interruptions. Okay?… Thanks, Connie.” Lucy hung up the phone and crossed her arms.

“Great,” I said, “we’re ready. Let’s run over some of those questions.”

As Lucy and I reviewed the interview points she’d prepared, Pierce listened quietly, cutting a few more slices of kringle.

Mere seconds past eight-fifteen, Connie phoned up to tell us that Cynthia had arrived. Lucy excused herself, heading down to the lobby. Pierce and I waited, and within the minute, I saw Lucy’s crop of red hair bobbing up the stairway at the front of the newsroom. Cynthia followed, and I could tell, even from a distance, that she had been awake all night. The shattering news of her husband’s infidelity and arrest, the bizarre scheme of infecting witch hazel with mushroom toxins, the unplanned wee-hours drive home from Green Bay, all these factors had taken their toll. Normally the very picture of self-assurance, impeccable grooming, and tasteful attire, Cynthia now looked like hell. She needed sleep, she needed makeup, and she needed to change out of yesterday’s clothes.

Lucy escorted her through the newsroom and into my office. Pierce and I rose. I stepped to meet her at the doorway. “My God, Cynthia,” I said while giving her a hug, “I’m so sorry about everything. You must be crushed.”

She nodded, managing a slight smile. “Thank you, Mark. You’ve become such a dear friend. At times like these—” She broke off, raising a hand to her lips, stifling a whimper.

I asked, “You’ve met Sheriff Douglas Pierce, haven’t you?”

“Of course. Good morning, Sheriff.” She extended her hand.

“Morning, Cynthia. Mark invited me to sit in on this, in case any procedural questions come up. I couldn’t be sorrier about the…circumstances.”

She assured Pierce, “Neither could I.”

Lucy suggested, “Why don’t we all sit down.” We grouped around the table, Pierce and Cynthia across from each other, Lucy across from me.

Settling in, fingering my pen, I made a few preambular remarks, but Cynthia seemed more focused on the pastry than on my words. “I’m sorry,” I told her. “Coffee? Prune Danish?”

“Thanks,” she said, nodding, “I’m starved. Forgot to eat.” Lucy poured the coffee; Pierce stacked a few slices of kringle on a napkin and passed it to her.

I continued, “Since news of all this won’t break in the
Register
till tomorrow morning’s edition, I wanted to discuss with you our treatment of the story. First, you have my assurance that we’ll do nothing to sensationalize the more…well, ‘sensational’ aspects of what’s transpired.”

“
Thank
you, Mark.” Cynthia slurped her coffee, broke off a bit of pastry.

“In exchange for this consideration, if it’s not asking too much, we’d like to run an exclusive interview with you. From our perspective, it’s good, solid journalism. From your perspective, it’s a chance to spin the story any way you wish. Fair enough?” I uncapped my pen; Lucy switched on her tape recorder.

Cynthia nodded, swallowing. “Of course, Mark. I appreciate this opportunity.”

“Excellent. Lucy has a few prepared questions to get us started.”

Lucy glanced at her notes. “What was your first reaction, Cynthia, when you learned that Frank had been arrested on suspicion of murdering Jason Thrush?”

“I was stunned, of course—I still am. The revelation of Frank and Jason’s apparent relationship is particularly distressful, as I’m sure you can understand. Regarding the murder, though…well, I just can’t believe it.”

I asked, “Are you saying generally that news of the murder was unexpected, or are you saying specifically that you don’t believe Frank is the killer?”

She paused, thinking through my dual question. “Both. Obviously, the Thrush boy’s murder came as a great shock to
everyone.
As for Frank, even though the circumstances seem damning, he just
couldn’t
be responsible—I know him far too well.”

Lucy asked, “Did you know he was gay?”

Cynthia closed her eyes, exhaling. “I knew he had a past.” After a moment’s thought, she opened her eyes. “May I speak off-the-record, Mark? I’d like to tell you some background.”

“Please do.” I capped my pen and set it down, but Lucy made no move to stop her tape recorder.

Cynthia leaned back in her chair. “When Frank and I first met, when I guest-lectured to his class at Woodlands, we clicked instantly. Sure, we shared the same background in molecular biology, but we also
liked
each other. We made each other laugh. We became friends. And I hardly need add that I found Frank achingly attractive—who’d blame me? Yes, I knew from the start that the attraction, the
physical
attraction, wasn’t mutual, but we both seemed to understand that
that
didn’t really matter. After all, I brought
other
things to the relationship. Things, you might ask, like success and affluence? Sure. Did that make me feel ‘used’ or ‘bought’? Not in the least. I felt blessed, I felt
lucky
to land a man like that, a man wanted by many other women, a man they could never have.”

I asked, “When you married Frank eight years ago, did you have a specific understanding that he would ‘give up’ his gay life?”

“Yes. That was part of the bargain, if you will. But we didn’t phrase our understanding in terms of gay versus straight. We simply agreed that our marriage vows would be taken literally and seriously—we promised to remain faithful to each other, excluding all others.”

“Cynthia,” I said tentatively, “forgive me if this gets too personal, but it does seem to shed some light on what’s happened. When Neil and I visited your home on Monday night, while we were touring the spa, you implied that there was no sex in your marriage. You said you were forty-three; you alluded to menopause. Then, referring to the spa as your ‘private world,’ you said, ‘This is what’s left, and I love it.’ You said that it was better than sex.”

A wan smile crossed her face. She gave a tiny shrug. “I can’t deny it, and why should I? Yes, Frank and I have had a sexless marriage. So what? Many ‘conventional’ marriages evolve into that anyway. And those folks don’t have our private world to fall back on, our retreat, our sanctuary. Those folks don’t have the magic of Frank’s fingers to get them through their lonely nights.”

I nodded, recalling, “On Monday, when Neil suggested that Frank should open a massage service, you shook your fist, telling us, ‘He’d better not.’ Then Frank assured everyone—you and us—that he had ‘only one client.’ He called the spa the ‘glue’ of your marriage. Just now, you called the spa your ‘sanctuary.’ You do indeed think of it as a sanctuary, a holy place, don’t you, Cynthia?”