“No need to apologize,” Neil assured him. “A little less Danish and a lot more running seem to be in order.” He patted his flat stomach as if he were woefully flabby; in fact, he’d never looked better.
Barb brought the extra cup to the table. “Here you go, Doug. Help yourself.”
“Thanks,” he said, pouring. “Can’t stay long. Just wanted to say hi, really.”
She told him, “Thad will be sorry he missed you again. He’s been wanting to thank you for attending the play
again
last weekend.” The four of us had seen the show together on Saturday night.
Pierce said, “I should thank
him
—it was great.”
“Yeah, it was, wasn’t it?” Barb sat in the remaining chair. “The second weekend, he was even better than he’d been on opening night. He’s got some real talent, that kid.”
Her observation was apt. With the mystery of Jason Thrush’s death resolved, Thad had been completely exonerated in the eyes of his peers—no more prank phone calls, no more back-alley scuffles. With his emotions cleared, he’d excelled in the final three performances of
Teen Play.
I told everyone, “Denny Diggins was elated. He says he can’t wait to try his hand at another play.”
“You’re kidding,” said Neil. “After all the ups and downs with that production, I wouldn’t be surprised if Denny never set foot in a theater again.”
I grinned. “Well, he did mention that his second play will feature a small cast of adults—no kids.”
Neil said, “I’m just glad his first play is behind us. All’s well that ends well.”
“Yup,” I summarized, “the curtain has fallen, the villains have been unmasked, and justice has triumphed.”
Pierce snorted. “Those villains gave us a good runaround. In the end, though, it was most accommodating of Cynthia to leave the poisoned tincture in the trunk of her car for us. We’d have pieced the evidence together eventually, but that bottle of witch hazel brought the whole investigation to a quick, definitive close.”
“Yeah,” said Neil, “I was wondering about that. Why would Cynthia hang on to such incriminating evidence? Why not dump it right away?”
Barb offered, “Maybe ’cause she’s
stupid
?”
I laughed. “No, Cynthia’s anything but stupid. Even though she may not have intended to kill Jason, when she learned what had happened, she must have taken a measure of perverse pride in it. By keeping the evidence—a sort of trophy—and storing it in her trunk, she was, in effect, gloating. She thought she’d gotten away with murder.”
“She damn near did,” Pierce reminded us, no humor in his voice.
I told Neil, “Good thing she paid you fast for the pavilion design. Her future’s shaky now, to say the least—I doubt if she’ll proceed with construction.”
“Tell me.” Neil shook his head. “The pavilion’s dead, I’m sure. I’m glad I got paid, but what I
really
wanted was to see the place built.”
I reached a hand to his shoulder. On impulse, I suggested, “Let’s build it.”
“No.” His tone was pensive. “It was a custom project, designed for
them
, for
their
land, for
their
life together. It’s gone.” This observation produced a lull in our discourse as we mulled the tragic disintegration of the Geldens’ lives.
Pierce broke the silence. “I’ve been meaning to ask you, Mark. Last Wednesday, when you called me down to the theater during intermission, you mentioned that Denny had agreed to ask Thad, Tommy, and Joyce Winkler to remain that night after the others. But Joyce and her daughter Nicole slipped out as soon as the rehearsal was over. What was that all about?”
I nodded, grinning, having wondered when he’d ask me to clarify that detail. “Earlier that day, my suspicions began to focus on Joyce because her daughter had been jilted by Jason and because Joyce, a hospital lab tech, could probably have pulled off the tainted-tincture scenario newly suggested by the coroner. During intermission, when Kwynn questioned Tommy about his ‘cheap perfume,’ Joyce and Nicole began whispering to each other, further raising my suspicions. In the next moment, though, the whole witch-hazel angle clicked for me, and at that point, my suspicions shifted firmly to Frank.”
“Okay…,” Pierce said tentatively. “So why did you want Joyce to stay?”
“First, I felt there was still a
chance
she might be the culprit. But more important, I wanted
Frank
to think that I suspected her. He was up in the control booth, so I knew he’d see me when I confronted the others after rehearsal. If Frank knew I suspected
him
, I was afraid he might bolt, get violent, or who knows? But if he thought the crime was about to be pinned on
Joyce
, I hoped he would be lured down to help support my accusations. As it turned out, Joyce had left, my fears proved groundless, and Frank came down from the booth to find Tommy, who’d planned to ride home with him. The whole setup worked fine without Joyce.”
Pierce fingered the rim of his cup, nodding. “And I suppose we’ll just never know what Joyce and Nicole’s ‘suspicious’ whispering was all about. Doesn’t matter now, I guess.”
“Uh”—I laughed—“as a matter of fact, I’ve since gotten the whole story. Denny asked Joyce about the whispering and the rush to leave, and he later shared the details. The theater was especially hot that night, and at intermission, everyone was sweating. That’s when Kwynn barbed Tommy about the ‘cheap perfume.’ Hearing this comment, the pretty, vain Nicole realized that she had neglected to use antiperspirant that evening. She was afraid that the heat might expose this grievous lapse of personal hygiene, and she was anxious for Joyce to take her home. Mystery solved.”
Neil laughed heartily. “What a ditz.”
With a derisive snort, Barb added, “I can understand why Jason dumped her.”
Philosophically, Pierce observed, “And thus three nefarious suspects—Denny, Joyce, and Nicole—have ceased to warrant scrutiny.”
I reminded him, “There were others. And I don’t mean Thad.”
“Indeed there were. Burton and Mica Thrush were at the top of my list all along. Due to those whopper insurance policies, both Burton and Mica had
the
classic motive to want Jason dead. Greed.”
I nodded. “Though neither the father nor the sister proved to be a murderer, the more I’ve learned about them, the more I’m appalled by their unvarnished avarice. Burton, who supposedly insured his son’s life to guarantee the future viability of Thrush Typo-Tech, has now announced the closing of his company; for the few years he has left, he’ll live high off the death benefit. Mica, of course, never made a pretense of lofty motives for her own policy. Right after her brother’s funeral on Saturday, she headed west in her new Mustang, planning to do some condo-shopping in Aspen. She had the gall to tell me last Wednesday that she ‘got lucky, that’s all’—and from her warped perspective, I guess she was right.”
Barb whistled. “Too bad the killer
wasn’t
one of those two. There’d be a certain joy in nailing people like that.”
Neil said, “There’d have been no joy in nailing Mark’s
other
suspect.”
Barb and Pierce looked at him quizzically.
“Neil raises a good point,” I told them with a soft laugh. “If Nancy Sanderson’s blood feud with the Thrushes had proven her guilty of murder, First Avenue Grill would now be padlocked and shuttered.
Then
where would we be?”
“Someplace
else
for lunch,” Neil answered, feigning a shudder.
With a thoughtful, serious tone, Pierce wondered, “Do you suppose Nancy really does take comfort in Burton’s suffering? Sure, she herself has suffered due to Burton’s insensitivity and egotism, but she’s always struck me as a good, decent person. Could she really be that spiteful?”
I shrugged. “I heard Nancy talking to another woman in the theater lobby about Jason’s death. She said, ‘Sometimes destiny doles out its own harsh justice.’ Can’t argue with that—not in
your
line of work, Doug.” I smiled.
“No, guess I can’t.” Checking his watch, he said, “Gosh, gotta run.” He stood. “Thanks for the coffee. Tomorrow—kringle, I promise.”
The rest of us stood. Stepping to Pierce, I put an arm around his shoulder. “Pastry or not, you’re always welcome here, Doug.”
Barb piped in, “You might bring bagels now and then.”
“Don’t start,” I told her.
She showed me the tip of her tongue. She didn’t expect to see mine displayed in return, and when she did, she howled with laughter.
Neil gave Pierce a farewell hug, we said a round of good-byes, then Pierce left through the back door. Barb offered to make more coffee, but Neil and I declined; our cups were nearly full, and we’d already drunk more than usual.
As we sat again at the table, Barb carried the pot to the sink and began rinsing it. “Did you see yesterday’s mail?” She jerked her head toward a stack of envelopes and catalogs tucked next to the wall at the end of the counter. “No bills—I checked.”
Absentmindedly, I got up, grabbed the mail, returned, and sat, putting the stack on the table between Neil and me. We routinely handled so much paper at each of our offices, opening mail seemed more and more like work—besides, it rarely brought anything other than credit offers, charity pitches, and politicians’ beg letters. We both ignored the pile.
Neil asked Barb, “How are the clarinet lessons going?”
While drying the pot and reassembling the coffeemaker, she told him, “Terrific. Last night I had my second lesson. I like my teacher, and I’ve been working on some of my old disciplines. It feels good.”
“It’s been
sounding
good,” I assured her, “the Messiaen piece. I’m glad we were able to get you connected with Whitney Greer.”
“Me too.” She stepped near the table. “He
phoned
me yesterday afternoon.”
“Yeah? What for?” The community orchestra’s manager had helped Barb find a teacher, but why the follow-up?
“Do you guys have a minute? I need to ask you about something.”
Neil and I exchanged a quick, wary glance. “Sure, Barb. Sit down.”
She did. “
Well
,” she explained, wide-eyed, “when Mr. Greer met me here at the cast party, he seemed very interested in my background as a money manager, and yesterday, I found out why. There’s a vacant position on the orchestra’s board of directors, and they’ve been needing someone with solid financial expertise, and I
am
an MBA—so he met with the board, they all talked it over, and they’d like to have me join. On the
executive
committee, if you can believe it—they need a new treasurer.” She sat back, grinning.
“That’s wonderful,” said Neil.
“Congratulations.” I told her. “Go for it. But what did you need to ask us about? I thought—” Actually, I wasn’t sure
what
I had thought, but she’d made it sound so ominous.
“They have meetings, you see, and they’re at night. There’s a monthly board meeting, and another monthly meeting of the finance committee, which would involve me. So I’d need to be away from the house on certain evenings, if that’s no problem.”
“Of
course
it’s no problem,” I told her. “We’ll muddle through when we have to—we’ve done it before, God knows.”
“Besides,” added Neil, “you’ll be making a real contribution to the quality of life in Dumont.”
She nodded. “That’s what I figured, but I thought I’d better check. Thanks, guys.” She stood. “I’ll clean up after you leave. Right now, I’d like to go upstairs and get in a bit of practicing.”
“Enjoy,” I told her, and she left the kitchen, headed for the front stairs.
Neil sighed. “Well, we can’t put it off any longer.”
“What?” I’d begun flipping through the stack of mail.
“Work.” He laughed, pushing back his chair. “Might as well get going.”
Vacantly, I agreed, “Uh-huh.” An envelope had caught my attention, addressed by hand to Messrs. Waite and Manning.
Neil leaned to look at it. “What’s so interesting?”
“It’s addressed to us—you first—from a hotel in Boston.” As I handed him the letter, my eye fell to the next envelope, addressed to Thad, typewritten.
Barb’s clarinet sounded a few warm-up tootles and scales.
Neil’s face wrinkled with curiosity. Working his finger under the envelope’s flap, he opened it and removed a two-page letter written on Ritz-Carlton stationery. Flipping to the end, he said, “It’s from Roxanne! What the hell has she been…?” He’d begun skimming from the top, then stopped. “My God,” he said flatly, “you won’t believe this.” He positioned the letter squarely between us on the table.
It was dated Monday, three days earlier. Together, we read it:
Hi,
boys
!Sorry I’ve been out of touch. I know you’ve tried to reach me, Neil, but Carl and I have been sequestered (that’s the lawyer in me talking), examining options for our future. As you know, the plan to move in with him, to say nothing of the deeper issue of commitment, has weighed heavily on me. I needed some “time out,” so Carl suggested a retreat to his place in Springfield, where we spent most of last week.
It’s a small apartment, and both of us had managed to cut ourselves loose from office duties, so we spent a lot of time together in close quarters—a good test. And I’m happy to report that we both passed with flying colors. Have I ever actually mentioned to you that I
love
Carl? There, surprise, I’ve said it. Here’s another surprise:Last Friday, Carl suggested that we consider marriage, and I tendered revocable consent (the lawyer in me again). We’ve set a target date of about a year for the i-dotting and t-crossing. That should be plenty of time for planning, for testing the living arrangement—and for me to back out! So I guess we’re “engaged.” Carl wanted to celebrate with a trip to Boston, a city he’s always loved, and here we are, enjoying a prehoneymoon.
We return to Chicago this weekend. I’ll phone, and we can really talk. But I wanted to warn you first by letter, hoping you won’t be too shocked. You’re the first to know, by the way. And here’s something to think about: Would both of you, Neil and Mark, consent to stand as witnesses at our wedding? I promise, no jokes about “bridesmaids”—we need two witnesses, and we’d be honored if they were you.
Carl was married before, of course, and the whole marriage thing makes me a tad uncomfortable anyway, so the wedding itself will be very simple, very civil. In fact, we might even want to have it up there. But I’m getting ahead of myself. Let’s talk. I’ll phone this coming Saturday.
I miss you guys. I think of you often. And believe it or not, I’m one ridiculously happy woman.
Love, Roxanne
PS: How’s everything with Thad? I assume they haven’t locked him up, or you’d have managed to get through to me.