Name Games (41 page)

While paying a lady at the door a few dollars for our tickets, I noticed a sign posted there
: KEEP ALL RECEIPTS. BAGS SUBJECT TO SEARCH WHEN LEAVING
. The lady selling the tickets saw me read this, apologizing, “We
hate
to make our guests feel like criminals, but with such expensive merchandise, and all of it so small…”

Neil eyed Roxanne’s big purse.

With unconcerned innocence, she told us, “I’ve nothing to hide,” patting the purse. Then, feeling something inside, she frowned. Opening the purse, she looked within and laughed. “Actually, I
do
have something to hide.” And she whisked out a videocassette, holding it high—it was
Rascal Tyner’s Hottest Hits.
She explained to Neil, “I stopped at the loft last night, as requested.”

“For God’s sake,” I told her, grabbing the tape out of her hand. The cassette label featured a large color photo of the porn idol in his aroused, naked glory, wearing only those running shoes that had become my secret fixation. Several people waiting nearby in the crowd were staring at the video, aghast. Roxanne’s tearful laughter drew all the more gapes. I rumbled to hide the tape, sliding it into one of my blazer’s patch pockets. The pocket wasn’t quite big enough to conceal the cassette entirely, and Rascal’s shoes peaked up over the flap. “Now behave yourself,” I whispered loudly, grasping her elbow and yanking her inside the shop.

If the scene outdoors was chaotic, the scene within was mayhem. Roxanne, Neil, and I could barely move. Any notion of browsing or shopping was out of the question. Our best bet was to reach the rear doorway that connected to the exhibit hall, hoping the larger space beyond would be less jammed. “This way,” I told them while sidling through the crowd.

My hunch proved correct. The exhibit hall in the converted drugstore was considerably more welcoming; though crowded, there was at least room to move. Neil had visited the hall with me on Tuesday afternoon, when Grace showed us her finished roombox, so the exhibits held few surprises for him. Roxanne, on the other hand, was setting foot in the convention hall for the first time. What’s more, she was entering with no background knowledge of the miniatures world; she surely felt the same skepticism I had felt, nine days prior, when reading the announcement that the Midwest Miniatures Society was preparing to convene in Dumont. So Neil and I both did our best to fill her in, giving her a crash course that included such topics as room-boxes, one-twelfth scale, and celebrity artisans within the field.

As we strolled the aisles, Roxanne came to feel more at home in this strange little world, and predictably, her interest grew. Her comments lost their cynical edge, and her questions revealed an underlying appreciation for the exhibitors’ passion for perfection. Glancing up from a tiny set of barware that she was examining at one of the booths, she noticed a buzz of activity at the far end of the hall and wondered aloud, “What’s going on?”

“Let’s find out,” I said, and the three of us jostled toward the end of the aisle, where a clump of onlookers had gathered in the competition area. A set of television lights blinked on, adding to the excitement.

Approaching the crowd, I realized that a press conference was in progress. At the center of the action was Grace Lord with Bruno Hérisson, fielding questions from several reporters. Glee Savage was among them, with a
Register
photographer. There were other reporters from out-of-town papers and the trade press, including
Nutshell Digest,
and I recognized the crew from a Green Bay television station.

Grace was saying, “…and I’m told that this morning’s attendance has broken all first-day records for any convention of the Midwest Miniatures Society.” She beamed proudly into the TV lights. “It’s so very gratifying, in spite of the tragic circumstances.”

“I’m sure,” said the toothy airhead from Green Bay—he looked like an aging frat boy in a bad suit. Swinging his microphone to Bruno, he said, “Those same ‘tragic circumstances’ have left you, Mr. Harrison, in the winner’s circle.” Big fake smile. “From the scoop I’ve heard around the hall,
you
are now the reigning king of miniatures. What’s it feel like, Mr. Harrison?”

Bruno looked utterly bewildered by the reporter, his manner, and his question. He answered tentatively, “Very nice, I suppose.”

“I suppose!” echoed the reporter, slapping Bruno’s back.

Glee Savage butted in, “Mr. Hérisson?” She pronounced it correctly, of course. “You’ve not yet commented publicly on the death of Carrol Cantrell. It’s widely known within the miniatures world that the two of you developed something of a bitter rivalry over the years. Is there anything you’d care to say regarding Mr. Cantrell’s passing?”

“
Chère
Glee,” he answered, “I mourn his passing. I shall deeply miss Cantrell as a lost friend. Thank you for allowing me to express my sympathies to all those who loved him.”

What was
that
all about? Bruno’s kind words went beyond shallow diplomacy—their delivery had the ring of sincere grief. In the week since Cantrell’s murder, had his archrival’s attitudes mellowed so markedly that he now felt moved to deliver spot eulogies to the press? Or was Bruno merely acting, playing the role that would serve his business best? Perhaps he was cunning enough to fear that his ascension to Cantrell’s throne could backfire if his new subjects came to see him as a usurper.

As I pondered this, the interviews continued, and I realized that the focus of this attention was the roombox competition. Bruno had stepped in for his fallen rival as celebrity judge, and Grace was introducing him to the press as he prepared to announce the winners and award the ribbons. One of the reporters asked Grace about her own entry, the miniature reproduction of Lord’s Rexall. Blushing as the cameras swung to her roombox, she told the history of the family drugstore and explained some of the intricacies of building the miniature, but emphasized that this entry was for exhibition only. She concluded, “I built it for the joy of doing it, as a tribute to the Lord family and their contributions to life here in Dumont. That’s reward enough—I don’t expect any ribbons.” And all present applauded her.

It was a sentimental moment as Roxanne, Neil, and I paused with the others, clapping, honoring the woman whose efforts had! mounted this event. Against all odds, she’d succeeded in bringing the world of miniatures to our little town in central Wisconsin. Most who applauded Grace didn’t even know her; they were miniaturists from afar who were simply expressing their gratitude for a job well done. Others who applauded Grace had known her for years; they were the locals who cherished the nostalgia of Lord’s Rexall and had grown up with the family that once filled the big clapboard house next door. As I myself applauded, I realized that I fit neither of these two groups. Yes, I did know Grace, but I had not grown up with her family in Dumont.

Thinking of the Lord family, I allowed my mind to drift once more to the image of Grace’s nephew. Ward Lord, whom I’d glimpsed but once in the old photograph that I’d carried down the stairs from the coach house, romped again with his collie on the rolling lawn behind the Lord family home. He flashed his perfect smile, flexed his perfect body, and was gone.

My doting was interrupted by the jab of Neil’s elbow. “Hey,” he told me, “Grace is waving at you—she’s trying to catch your eye.”

Sure enough, she’d spotted me in the crowd and waved happily, looking at least a foot taller than the prim little lady who’d struggled through such difficult times of late. Her tight silver curls were again beauty-parlor fresh, her features looked relaxed and radiant, and her smart autumn outfit required no self-effacing apologies—no jeans today. I waved back, then shot her a thumbs-up, offering silent congratulations on the whole affair. She returned my thumbs-up, sharing my assessment of the morning, then turned her attention to a photographer from
Nutshell Digest,
who snapped a picture of her with Bruno.

I would have liked to spend some time talking with Grace, but she was busy and the logistics of the crowd were difficult, so I decided not to try—our chitchat could wait. I told Neil and Roxanne, “There are some workshop sessions at the other end of the hall that might be interesting. Care to have a look?”

“Sure,” they agreed. “Why not?” And we retreated from the crowd.

Three or four workshops were in session along the far wall, where eager students gleaned “tricks that click” from the masters. More than lectures, these were hands-on classes, working on actual projects with real materials. Advance enrollment, prepaid, was required for these sessions, which filled quickly. Still, anyone could watch, and a milling crowd of curious spectators observed the participants, who labored at tables.

One of these workshops, dedicated to techniques of curtain-making (in miniature, of course), caught Neil’s attention, so Roxanne and I waited in the aisle with him as he craned over shoulders to observe the action. The basic tool used by the class was a ridged rubber form. The parallel ridges, perhaps a pencil-width apart, served to align the folds of draw drapes being constructed. The fabric or paper, chosen for both its pattern and its pliability, was forced into the form and set with polymer, shellac, or just plain steam or water, depending on the material used and the effect desired. The result was a stiff set of drapes with perfect pleats that could then be installed as part of a larger roombox project. Even this small detail, which would doubtless go unnoticed by a casual observer of the finished room, required time, patience, and the acquired skill of the miniaturist.

The students, both men and women, all middle-aged, worked quietly under the tutelage of the expert, a plump older woman in a jumpsuit who leaned in close to demonstrate technique or to offer words of advice. Those of us watching barely spoke, as the intensity of the workshop seemed to demand silence. Collectively, we tuned out the bustle of the hall behind us, reducing the distant hubbub to a muffled din.

Placing my hands on my hips, attempting to lean closer for a better look, I knocked the Rascal Tyner video out of my jacket pocket. The plastic cassette clattered loudly as it hit the tile floor, evoking a group gasp from the entire workshop. “Sorry,” I muttered lamely as I stooped to retrieve the video. The disturbance I’d created was now compounded by Roxanne’s laughter, which she attempted—unsuccessfully—to stifle. Neil inched a step or two away from us, pretending not to know us.

Down on the floor, I glanced at the cassette label, pausing for a moment to enjoy the sight of Rascal Tyner in his running shoes. With a sigh of longing, I returned the tape to my blazer’s patch pocket. Just as I was about to stand, my field of vision was filled with someone else’s shoes—a pair of clogs—and my lusty little fantasy was instantly washed over by sheer revulsion.

“I
thought
I’d find you here,” yapped Miriam Westerman. Her voice was loud enough to draw the attention of several bystanders.

As I rose to my feet, my eyes passed her wrinkled green tights, her wicked-witch cloak, her necklace of carnage. Meeting her face-to-face, I told her dryly, “Brightest blessings, Miriam.”

“You scurvy penis cultist!” she blared at me, drawing the attention of everyone else within earshot. “I’ll teach you to defame
my
character—I’ll sue your sorry cock-whipped ass!”

Before I could think of a response, both Neil and Roxanne had closed ranks on either side of me. Shocked by the woman’s outburst, Roxanne told her, “Watch it, babe.” Her tone was strictly business. “Unless you’re prepared to tangle with me in a court of law, you’d better shut your mouth.”

Westerman puffed herself up and literally hissed—like a big snake with hair. “Ssssisters shouldn’t turn on sisterssss,” she warned Roxanne.

Now Roxanne was speechless, which took some doing.

But Neil was undaunted. “What’s this about, Miriam? This is hardly the—”

She hollered, “This is
about
the death of Carrol Cantrell. This is
about
the slanderous accusations that I was in any way involved in that crime.”

Now at least I understood the point of this confrontation. Obviously, Harley Kaiser had tattled to Westerman the suspicions we had clumsily voiced in his presence at my office the previous afternoon. Obviously, she’d figured out that the
Register
’s only interest in visiting her loony school was to sniff her out as a murder suspect. With a small army of wide-eyed witnesses now hanging on every word of this unorthodox debate, I told her, “You’ve been accused of nothing, Miriam. We’d be remiss in our investigation if we failed to follow up on suspicious circumstances.”

Seething, she snapped back, “The only ‘suspicious circumstance’ in this crime is that our homosexual sheriff happened to sodomize the victim mere hours before his strangled body was discovered. I also find it suspicious that you, Mr. Manning, have spared no effort to convince the public that our homosexual sheriff’s scandalous behavior is irrelevant to both the murder and the election. Could it be that your prurient interest in a fellow sodomite has tainted your precious objectivity?” She glared at me in silence, raising an inquisitive brow.

I’d managed to control my emotions throughout this assault, but now she’d pushed too far. It was time to lash back—not with a temperamental outburst, but with the one question that could truly hurt her. “Miriam,” I asked point-blank before the scores of onlookers, “why would anyone lace a cake with peanut butter, then feed it to a man who was known to be severely allergic to nuts?”

I wasn’t sure what sort of reaction to expect from her, but I was not prepared for what followed. She became suddenly calm, as though she had expected my question and had wanted me to ask it. Her cracked lips parted, forming a smirk. A whiff of her warm, foul breath hung between us. A look of victory flashed in her eyes as she told me dryly, rotely, “The peanut is a legume, Mr. Manning, not a nut. What’s your point?”

Her comeback produced its intended effect—it left me wordless.

With an air of triumph, she spun on one clog, twirling her cape. Perhaps it was my imagination, but I’d swear she cackled—wickedly, of course—as she clomped down the aisle, headed for the exit.