Boy Toy (40 page)

Through a wistful, far-off look, she answered, “I do indeed.”

I asked, “So it
angers
you to know that Frank has violated that sanctuary?”

“You better believe it,” she told me without hesitation.

“Did it also anger you when you first figured it out?”

Now she hesitated. “I’m not sure what you’re asking, Mark. I first found out about it last night—when Sheriff Pierce phoned.”

“Sorry, but I doubt that.” I didn’t need my notes. I didn’t need my pen. But I did feel like having another bite of prune Danish. So I put Cynthia through the agony of waiting several seconds while I fed myself, before telling her, “Sometime earlier this summer, you figured out that Frank was fooling around. Then you figured out a way to kill his lover. And the beauty, the supreme irony, of your plan is that your victim died at the hands of Frank himself, making your husband not only an unwitting accomplice, but also the apparent culprit.” Reaching for my coffee, I asked, “Essentially, that’s it, right?”

Her gaunt stare now made her appear even more haggard than when she’d arrived. Breaking eye contact with me, she shook her head fiercely. “
No
, I had no
idea
this was happening. For God’s sake, I was out of
town
when the boy was killed.”

“Sure,” I said, “and that’s what makes it all so slick. Everything points to Frank. And while Frank admits to giving Jason an erotic massage on the day he died, Frank also insists that he did not infect witch hazel with the mushroom toxins that killed the boy. Minutes ago, you yourself said that Frank couldn’t be the killer, and on that point, I agree with you. But if Frank didn’t do it, Cynthia, it had to be you.”

“You’re out of your mind.” She sat back, now more angry than defensive.

“Doug doubted me too, when I started piecing this together last night after he’d arrested Frank. But Doug hadn’t visited your spa on Monday, when I got the grand tour. I noticed some scented witch hazel among the other massage supplies, and that’s what eventually led me to suspect Frank. Later last night, though, I recalled something else that was said during my tour. Frank mentioned how much he enjoyed honing his massage skills on a loving partner, and in return, ‘Cynthia provides the setting, buys the equipment, and keeps up with the supplies.’ ”

Though the implication was clear enough, Cynthia bluffed, “So?”

I detailed the likely sequence of events: “So sometime this summer, probably a few weeks ago, you checked the supplies and noticed that they were being used much more quickly than before. Since you were supposedly Frank’s one and only massage client, you drew the obvious conclusion that he was indulging in frequent midweek sessions with someone else during your absences. Your knowledge of mushrooms is equal to Frank’s, as are your lab skills, so you had ample savvy to create a toxic tincture of witch hazel, leaving it for Frank to use on his secret lover during your stay in Green Bay last week. Returning on Saturday, you simply switched the infected astringent with a fresh bottle. Over the weekend, you doubtless enjoyed several loving treatments under Frank’s magic hands, secure in the knowledge that he’d used those same hands to scrag your competition—without even knowing it.”

Cynthia looked from me to the sheriff, then to Lucy, then back to me. “That’s ridiculous,” she said flatly. “Prove it.”

I checked my watch. “We’re working on it.”

Pierce checked his watch. “Cynthia, at Mark’s urging, I’ve secured warrants to search for any evidence linking you to the tainted witch hazel—fly agaric mushrooms, any form of the toxins choline and muscarine, or the infected alcohol itself. Confident that you’d arrive here promptly at eight-fifteen this morning, we arranged to execute the warrants at eight-thirty precisely. One minute from now, police officers in Green Bay and my own deputies here in Dumont will begin searching your office, lab, and apartment in Green Bay, as well as your Dumont home and your car. If we turn up the evidence we think we’ll find, I’ll be informed with a phone call—very soon—and you will be arrested, charged with murder, and prosecuted to the fullest. If, however, in the few seconds remaining, you choose to cooperate with this investigation and assist us in solving the crime, you may find the whole ordeal a bit easier.” Pierce checked his watch again. “It’s eight-thirty. Well, Cynthia?”

Both Lucy and I had our pens poised. The tape was rolling. The metaphorical clock was ticking. Cynthia stared numbly at the speaker-phone in the center of the table. A full minute passed, feeling like ten. No one spoke.

The phone rang.

Pierce reached, then paused to repeat, “Well, Cynthia?”

She raised her head to eye him defiantly. Was she clinging to some last-ditch hope that he might be bluffing?

He was not. The phone rang again, and he punched the flashing button. “This is Pierce.”

“Hi, Sheriff. Jim Johnson.” I recognized the name and voice of the deputy who’d met us at the Thrush residence on Friday night. “I think we’ve got—”

“Wait!”

“Hold on,” Pierce told his deputy. Turning, he asked, “Yes, Cynthia?”

She knew that further denials would be futile, further stalling was pointless. Through dry, sticky lips, she said weakly, “It’s…in the car…the witch hazel, the suspension of mushroom toxins. The bottle’s in the trunk of my car, parked in front of this building.” Then she seemed to wither in her chair.

Pierce turned to the phone. “Did you get that, Jim?”

“Yes, Sheriff. We found it.”

“Handle with care. That’s the murder weapon. Send it out for analysis. Thanks, Jim.” Pierce punched another button, disconnecting.

Cynthia had begun murmuring something.

Pierce asked, “What’s that, Cynthia?”

She looked up at us with swollen eyes. “I didn’t mean to
kill
him, I swear to God. I didn’t even know who it was. I assumed it was a man, but I didn’t even know that, not for sure. I wanted to make him sick, to teach them both a lesson. It was meant to be a… a ‘dirty trick,’ that’s all. Poisoning from fly agaric is rarely lethal—how was I to know it was just a kid, a kid with a bad cold?” She broke down, weeping into her hands.

Pierce, Lucy, and I exchanged a silent round of troubled looks, resigned to what would follow.

Pierce cleared his throat, recited Cynthia’s rights, then stood. “Come on, Cynthia. Let’s go now. You need some rest—and a good lawyer.”

Nodding, she stood.

Lucy and I rose as well. We followed as Pierce escorted Cynthia out of my office and began leading her through the newsroom. At a high sign from Lucy, one of our staff photographers stepped forward and, with strobe flashing, captured the dramatic exit that would grace tomorrow’s front page.

Though my promise not to sensationalize the story was merely part of a ruse, intended to trap a killer, I still felt compelled to honor it. The Geldens and the Thrushes would suffer only the humiliation they had brought upon themselves. The
Register
would stick to the facts.

I grinned. There was no way to tame this story. It didn’t need trumped-up headlines, cheap innuendo, or other tabloid tricks.

Tomorrow’s front page would be, in a word, sensational.

AUG. 16, DUMONT WI—THE
death of Jason Thrush two Fridays ago and the revelation of sordid circumstances leading to the tragedy have deeply bruised the public psyche of the town we call home. Though these emotional wounds are still fresh, it is time to place these events within a broader perspective.

Pedophilia is not a “gay perversion.” Such behavior, prohibited by both instinct and law, is no more common among homosexuals than among heterosexuals. The gay community, in fact, is especially quick to condemn any infraction of this taboo.

Which makes recent events all the more distressing. There is no defense for Frank Gelden’s violation of public trust. As a teacher, a mentor of youth, he has not only harmed his young victims; he has besmirched the gay community and betrayed Dumont at large.

Still, a measure of understanding is in order. Gelden’s actions with Jason Thrush were motivated by no intent to harm the boy. To the contrary, Gelden was motivated by misplaced passions confused with love. Similarly, when Cynthia Dunne-Gelden discovered her husband’s illicit affair and plotted her now well-known revenge, she too acted out of passion, neither knowing her victim nor intending to kill.

Sadly, though, one boy is now dead. One man is now disgraced, with his career abruptly ended and his future uncertain before the law. And one woman’s happy life is now consumed by day-today remorse as she awaits trial on manslaughter charges.

As a fair-minded community, can we judge these individuals? In this instance, judge we must.

The chain of events that led to the ruin of these lives was rooted not in Frank’s gayness, as some might conclude, but in Frank and Cynthia’s faulty attempt to sublimate his true nature in a contrived but “acceptable” marriage of convenience, a relationship that ultimately bred deceit and deadly retaliation.

T
HE HUMDRUM ROUTINE OF
the dog days of summer never felt better. Two weeks earlier, I had lamented the quiet pace of life in Dumont as an obstacle to putting out a daily newspaper. I’d gone so far as to wish for “a modicum of mayhem.” Would that other wishes, more benignly focused, were so promptly granted. Now, though, that week of midsummer mayhem was fully a week past, as was the crisis that had so profoundly affected our household on Prairie Street.

Thad was in bed, dreaming sweet nothings, growing another inch.

Barb fussed with something at the sink, gabbing and grousing.

Neil and I sat at the kitchen table, dressed for the day, lingering over breakfast, content in the maturity of our relationship. That contentment was reflected in the shared afterglow of another spontaneous, early-morning experiment in our ongoing quest for fresh romance. Details of that morning’s experiment need not be shared. The particulars would merely provide gratuitous titillation—containing no clues related to crime-solving. Suffice it to say, the experiment was highly successful, so our quest has continued.

Neil set down that morning’s
Register
, folded open to the opinion page. “Good editorial,” he told me, giving my arm a squeeze of approval. “Good point.”

Too modestly, I averred, “Nobody reads that stuff.” I was fishing.

Barb took the bait. “
Sure
they do,” she said, turning to us. “Lots of people flip to the editorial page—first thing. It’s the heart of the newspaper.”

“Heart
and
soul,” I agreed. “Did you read it, Barb?”

“Every word.” She turned off the water—she must have been cleaning mushrooms, the bounty of an early hunt. Wiping her hands, she approached the table. “If you ask me, Cindy’s getting off too easy. Manslaughter—what’s up with that?” Barb sat with us, refilling our coffee mugs from the pot on the table.

I explained, “Cynthia claims that she assumed the tainted witch hazel would not be deadly, and Harley Kaiser, our duly elected DA, believes her. She’s agreed to cooperate and plead guilty to the lesser charge. She’ll still do time.”

“Good.” Harrumph. “Any way you slice it, she killed that kid. Besides, the whole situation was of
her
making. She was the one itching to play wifey-poo. Cindy thought she could change Frank—everyone knows that’s a fag-hag mission that
never
works.”

Neil choked with a spurt of laughter while trying to swallow some coffee. After wiping his mouth, he reminded Barb, “Frank said ‘I do.’ He agreed to play house with Cynthia. Now they’ve
both
filed for divorce. What a mess.”

“Yeah, well…”

I added, “Life will be no picnic for Frank either. With considerable fanfare, he’s been dumped from the Woodlands faculty—he’ll never teach again. He’s never lived anywhere but Dumont, and his reputation here is down the crapper. He’ll need to build a completely new life somewhere else.”

“You mean, after prison?” asked Barb.

With a shrug, I explained, “That’s up in the air. He’s out on bail right now, and the DA still hasn’t figured out what charges to bring against him. No one’s come forward with claims that Frank molested anyone
before
Jason, and the ailing Burton Thrush has no desire to press charges that would put him center stage at a very sordid, very public trial. The DA could still hand down charges against Frank on the simple merits of the case, but he’ll think twice before crossing Burton, who helped elect him. Besides, Kaiser’s a hot dog; chances are, he’d rather focus on Cynthia’s trial. It’s far less messy, and he’ll still reap a nice political spin.”

Neil asked, “Tommy Morales has been left out of it, right?”

“Right.” I breathed a sigh of relief, shamed by my previous suspicions of the boy, who was neither a killer nor a conspirator, but, ultimately, a victim. Feeling I owed him something, I decided to have his car repaired—one less thing for him to fret over while he focused on school and his theatrical ambitions.

Answering Neil’s question, I elaborated, “On the night when Doug arrested Frank at the theater, Tommy begged us not to make known what had happened that afternoon—he’d be in for a real hammering from friends and family alike. Doug pitied the kid, so Tommy’s been spared the emotional trauma of being dragged into the scandal.”

“Thank God. Doug’s a pal. He’s—”

“Any coffee left?” asked Pierce himself, poking his head through the back door.

I laughed. “Sure, Doug. Come on in. We were just talking about you.”

Neil added, “Most of it was complimentary.”

“Glad to hear it,” said Pierce as he approached the table.

Barb stood. “Morning, Doug. Have a seat.” Vacating the chair, she crossed the kitchen to fetch a cup for him.

Sitting down, Pierce said sheepishly, “Sorry I’m empty-handed. I ran late at the gym, and I’ve got an early appointment at the department, so I didn’t have time to swing past the bakery.”