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Authors: Michael Craft

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Perhaps that curtain project in the den would require several return visits …
When the ice cream was finished, we continued to sit and talk, nursing our coffee. Todd sat back with a satisfied smile, telling Neil, “What a great meal.”
“Thanks,” said Neil, “but you helped.”
“Yeah, I guess I did. We
all
pitched in. You know, we work well together. I mean, we really sort of click, the three of us. Don't you think?”
Hmmm …
“Absolutely.” Neil turned to me. “See, Mark, I told you you'd like Todd.”
Roxanne had made the same prediction. Mulling this, I said nothing.
With a laugh, Neil prompted, “You do like Todd, don't you, Mark?”
Through a crooked smile, Todd echoed, “Don't you, Mark?”
Something stirred in my pants, and it wasn't my cell phone. What's more, my brain was spinning. “Well, uh,
sure
,” I answered clumsily.
“Hey, guys,” said Todd, leaning forward, arms on the table, “this is sort of awkward, but we're friends here. There's something I want to ask you about.”
“Of course, Todd.” Neil mirrored his position, leaning into the table. “What's on your mind?”
I leaned forward as well, closing our circle.
Todd cleared his throat. “Like I said, sort of awkward. This goes back to Geoff, in a way.”
“Awww.” Neil gave a sympathetic cluck. “All this talk tonight of Gillian and unexpected death, it got you thinking about—”
“No, Neil.” Todd wagged a hand. “That's not it at all. I'm talking about something we broached last night. You asked me about getting back in the dating game, and I said that I've been looking. I'm more than ready. So here's the deal:
“I have no idea what sort of ground rules you guys have in your relationship, and the last thing I'd want is to cause trouble, but I figure it can't hurt to ask. I've been coming out of a long dry spell lately, and for all I know, it may be slim pickin's for you guys up here. I mean, Dumont is a charming little town, and you're obviously very comfortable, but sometimes, you may need other gay companionship—or more—and I imagine it's hard to find here.”
With an uncertain laugh, he continued, “Well, in case you haven't noticed,
I'm
here. You guys are great together, and I can tell you're happy, but I thought maybe, occasionally, you might enjoy … spicing things up. If so—and I can't believe I'm saying this—I would welcome any sort of intimacy that may interest you.” He stopped for a moment, looking back and forth to Neil and me. “Oh, God,” he groaned, “I can tell from your stunned silence that I've just embarrassed myself.”
I struggled to speak, but didn't know what to say. I knew what I
wanted
to say (Let's help Todd out of his dry spell), but I thought I'd better let Neil take the lead.
“Well,” he finally said with a warm smile, “I'm a little surprised, but certainly not stunned—and there's no reason at all to feel embarrassed.”
“None at all,” I seconded.
“But … ?” wondered Todd.
“But I think maybe you've misread our friendship.”
Drat, I thought. Under the table, I was raring to go.
Neil continued, “Truly, Todd, if Mark and I were looking for someone, we'd jump at the chance to be with you. Right, Mark?”
“Uh, right,” I croaked. “Absolutely.”
“But we've never experimented with our relationship that way, and
I don't think we've even considered it.” Neil looked at me, expecting some backup.
I gave a weak, stupid smile.
“Guys”—Todd stood (looking downright edible, to be perfectly honest)—“say no more. I'm really,
really
sorry. Will you forgive me?”
“Of
course,
” I gushed.
“Todd,” said Neil, standing, “there's no need to apologize. Your modest proposal—or
im-
modest proposal—is a profound compliment.”
“Hmmm,” said Todd with a cagey grin, “it sounds like I still have a chance.”
Neil returned the grin. “Only time will tell, I guess.”
What did he mean by
that?
Was he simply buying time, waiting to discuss this unexpected option with me in private?
“Well, if you change your mind, you know where to find me. It was a rough day—emotionally—so I think I'll run along to bed.”
Now I
had
to get up from the table, a move I'd been delaying because of the bump in my lap. I waited for Neil to step to Todd, offering a good-night hug; then I rose, hiding my condition behind him.
Todd took more than a hug, kissing Neil on the lips, telling him, “Thanks for everything—your friendship, the job here, opening your home to me …”
Neil readily accepted the kiss, telling Todd, “Our pleasure. Have a good night's sleep.”
When Neil stepped away, Todd offered his arms to me. I clapped my arms around him, saying something inane, waiting for the kiss, and bang, there it was. It wasn't quite passionate, but it was no peck, lingering a few seconds, perfectly enjoyable. “Night, Todd,” I said when he finally broke away and headed out to the hall and up the stairs.
Neil and I watched him leave, then cleared the dessert things from the table. From the side of his mouth, Neil said, “Cocktails … wine with dinner … must've been those last few drops of Cointreau.”
Meaning, Todd was drunk.
Meaning, he wouldn't have otherwise made such a suggestion.
But to my eye, Todd hadn't looked drunk at all.
Due Diligence
FATAL FALL
Paper-mill executive found dead
at her new Dumont home
 
 
by CHARLES OAKLAND
Staff Reporter, Dumont Daily Register
 
 
OCT. 23, DUMONT, WI—Gillian Reece, chairman and CEO of Ashton Mills, was found dead of an apparent fall from a ladder on Wednesday. The fatal incident took place in the new home that she and husband Esmond Reece had just finished building in rural Dumont County, east of the city. She was 52.
A Wisconsin native, Gillian Reece studied business and accounting at college in Madison, then began her career in Milwaukee. She would later join the financial team at Ashton Mills, then headquartered near Harper. Her stellar rise at the paper manufacturer culminated in the top executive positions just over a year ago.
In anticipation of a friendly merger with Quatro Press, Mrs. Reece moved the corporate headquarters of Ashton Mills, as well as her home, to Dumont.
The merger with Quatro, which was to be finalized at a ceremonial signing today, is in jeopardy. Perry Schield, CEO of Quatro Press, told the
Register
, “Serious issues have recently been raised regarding the wisdom of merging with Ashton. The agreement could be validated by my signature alone, but I'm no longer willing to proceed. As far as I'm concerned, the deal is off.”
The timing of Mrs. Reece's death vis-à-vis the failure of the merger appears coincidental. The body was discovered around noon yesterday, and Dumont County coroner Dr. Vernon Formhals made an initial estimate of 11:00 A.M. as the time of death.
Sheriff Douglas Pierce, noting no apparent signs of foul play, told a reporter at the scene, “For now, I'm working on the theory that this death was an accident.”
An autopsy is being conducted, results of which are still pending.
N
eil and I had trouble falling asleep that night. The day's events at the Reece house had been exhausting, leaving us emotionally drained, but they also kept the mind active, reliving the episodes we had witnessed, pondering those we had not. What's more, the evening had ended on such an unexpected note—Todd Draper's explicit suggestion of a three-way—it was impossible simply to kiss good night, roll over, and drift off to peaceful slumber.
It was equally impossible, at least for me, to discuss what had happened, despite my nagging desire to explore with Neil the possibility Todd had raised. When Todd had made his overture, it would have taken only the slightest nudge from Neil, a wink of approval, to lure me into an untried adventure. But with the passing of time—a mere hour, perhaps—Todd's proposal had lost not only its immediacy, but its heat.
Had Neil been quicker than I to grasp the risks of welcoming Todd to our bed? Or was he, as I had then speculated, buying time, keeping Todd's pitch on the back burner long enough to weigh with me the ins and outs of experimenting with the bounds of our relationship? If the latter, there was no better time than right then for Neil to roll onto his side, facing me, and to ask, Say, Mark? What'd you make of Todd's come-on tonight? Think he was serious? Have you ever considered … ?
But Neil asked none of that. In fact, although he was restless, he said nothing at all. I found this silence not awkward, but oddly comforting, as it demonstrated he was struggling with Todd's proposition as much as I was. Not that I hoped he would reconsider and give in to this lusty temptation (by now I wasn't sure
what
I wanted—after all, I was the guy who was such a stickler for the rules). Still, I was heartened to know we were on the same page, neither prudish nor prurient, neither condemning nor condoning. Somewhere in the middle, we were searching for our comfort zone, our reality, our truth.
Lying there in the dark, I greeted Neil's tossing as a sign that I could relax. And finally, secure in his sleeplessness, I slept.
Later, I was visited by dreams. From these evanescent shadow plays, most of them the mere nonsense of my sleeping mind, two dreams were sufficiently congealed to moor in the crags of my memory upon waking. One was a juiced-up replay of what had happened at our dining-room table that night.
Neil and I are sitting across from Todd when he leans forward, elbows on the table, and begins to explain how we could help him out of his dry spell. He further explains how he could spice up our quiet life in central Wisconsin. Neil and I turn to each other, shrug a why-not, and rise from our chairs. Circling the table in opposite directions, we meet behind Todd's chair and lift him to his feet. With a loving smile, he stands perfectly still as we undress him. Then the
real
fun begins, right there, down on the floor.
This dream was decidedly pleasurable. The other was not.
In it, I am watching television, an old rerun of a
Dynasty
episode in which Joan Collins as Alexis is gearing up for a catfight with Linda Evans as Krystle. But as the confrontation heats up, Joan Collins is transformed into Joan Crawford, as portrayed by Faye Dunaway in
Mommie Dearest,
with Dumont's own Glee Savage done up in spit curls as the cowering daughter Christina. Then Faye morphs into none other than Gillian Reece, and the fireworks begin. Gillian and Glee exchange a sizzling round of bitch slaps, which I find hilarious, so I start to laugh. Hearing me, Gillian hisses and looks out from the screen, which instantly disappears, and all three of us are transported
to her two-story living room. “Tina,” says Gillian with a snarl, “bring me the ax.” Glee pulls an ax from a tangle of wire hangers and hands it to Gillian, who comes after me. Sensing mortal danger, I stop laughing and try to run, only to be tripped by the same wire hangers, which skitter and spin about the limestone floor. As Gillian takes aim, I fall, hitting my head on the floor. Upon impact, I awake.
 
We had gone to bed on the early side, so in spite of the restlessness that preceded sleep and the dreams that interrupted it, I awoke uncommonly refreshed, ready to take on the uncertainties of the day. Neil was also up and at it early. We showered and dressed, then went downstairs together, finding Todd waiting for us in the kitchen. He had started the coffee and now sat at the table reading my front-page report of Gillian's death.
Since the story wasn't news to him, he looked up at us with a cheery smile, unaffected by the grim emotions that had gripped all of us the previous evening while discussing the tragedy. “Hi, guys! Sleep tight?” No doubt about it—he was one handsome man.
“Not so bad,” said Neil. “How about you?” Stepping to the counter to pour coffee, he paused to give Todd's shoulder a squeeze.
“Like a baby,” he replied. “A big, fat, happy,
drunk
baby.”
“You're anything but fat,” I told him, sitting in the chair next to his, “and I
don't
think you were drunk last night.”
“You're right, Mark,” he said, looking me in the eye with a steady gaze. “I was sober as a proverbial judge.”
“Oh, really?” asked Neil, bringing three mugs of coffee to the table. “I've rarely heard a judge discuss group sex over dessert.” His breezy tone suggested not the least discomfort with the topic, nor did he seem to be scolding Todd for anything inappropriate.
Good God, it didn't take much—already I felt the prod of arousal. Just where, I wondered, did Neil stand on all this?
Todd told him, “It seems you've been hanging out with the wrong judges.”
“Perhaps I have,” agreed Neil, mussing Todd's hair as he joined us at the table.
I was tempted to do the same, to run my hand through Todd's sandy hair (which looked so much like Neil's), to give a physical sign that his touch was welcome in return. But this was
breakfast
, the start of a busy day, hardly the time to be flirting with the emotional whirlwind of a possible threesome. Besides, there was no plausibly innocent manner in which I could feel Todd's hair as Neil had just done. Coming from me—an observer of their patter, not a participant in it—such a gesture would be transparently suggestive, flirtatious, and needy. Or was I overanalyzing the situation? Fusty, fussy, prissy me. If Neil could tousle Todd's hair, why couldn't I? Because, it occurred to me, I had simply waited too long. The moment had passed.
I blinked, realizing Todd was staring at me.
“Wow,” he said. “Must be the morning light, Mark. I didn't notice before, but you have the most striking—and gorgeous—green eyes.”
Neil laughed. “He hears that all the time.”
“Now and then,” I allowed. “Thanks, Todd.”
“Hey,” he said, “do you want eggs or something? I'd be happy to cook.”
“Nah, don't bother,” said Neil, sounding a bit distracted. “Doug should be here soon. He usually brings pastry on his way from the gym.”
“Doug?”
“Sheriff Douglas Pierce,” I reminded him. “He's a close friend.”
“Let me get this straight. The sheriff, a gym hound, delivers your breakfast every morning. What's up with that?” quipped Todd. “Is he gay?”
“Matter of fact, he is. But he's not stopping by today. I think he had an early dentist's appointment. I'm meeting him downtown at the coroner's office.”
Todd mused, “There's nothing quite like a visit to the morgue to get one's day going, is there?”
“That's appetizing,” said Neil. “Still up for eggs?”
“No, thanks. Never touch 'em.”
“They're an excellent source of protein,” I noted, not intending to sound suggestive.
“Wouldn't want to run low on
that.”
Todd gave us a wink.
Even so, there were no takers for eggs, so we settled on toast and day-old kringle.
Then Neil and Todd headed over to the Reece house.
And I went downtown to meet Doug.
 
Dumont's public-safety building housed not only the sheriff's department and jail, but also various department offices, including that of the coroner. The facility was open at all hours, but as I walked into the dispatch area that morning, there was the unmistakable bustle of beginning a new day, as if someone had just unlocked the front door for business. A shift was changing, coffee was perking, and a scratchy radio gave the local weather forecast—sunny skies again, still cool.
I paused to ask a dispatcher at the window, “Is the sheriff in yet?”
“Yes, Mr. Manning”—they all seemed to know me—“he just arrived. Said you could find him with Dr. Formhals.”
“Thanks. I know the way.” As I headed down the hallway that led to his office, terrazzo flooring clicked underfoot, fluorescent lighting hummed overhead.
The coroner's door was marked with an inelegant plastic sign, and I knew from previous experience that there was no need to knock. Walking in, I heard conversation on the other side of a partition that separated a small waiting room from the doctor's office space.
“That you, Mark?” called Doug.
“Yes, it's I.” The response slipped out naturally from the grammarian within, but even as I said it, I knew how pedantic I sounded. With a cough, I added, “It's me, I'm here.”
“Morning, Mark,” said Dr. Formhals, stepping around the partition to shake my hand. His brown skin looked inky black against a starched white lab coat. “Always a pleasure to welcome you to these sad surroundings.” He was referring not only to the morgue itself, which lay beyond his offices, but to the utilitarian decorating, the artificial light, the plastic plants, and the shabby, county-issued metal furniture. Only his desk of ornately carved wood, far too big for the space it occupied, showed any sign of personality or character.
I greeted the doctor, then reached to shake hands with Doug, who was seated, trapped at the far end of the ungainly desk.
Doug said, “Vernon was just sharing with me some of his initial findings.”
“Mind if I sit in?”
Doug grinned. “That's why I asked you here.” He felt compelled to explain to the doctor, “Mark's perspective on mysterious death has always been useful to me.”
“Of course, Douglas. Of course.” Formhals sat behind his desk, gesturing that I should take the remaining chair, next to Doug. “I hate to disappoint either of you, but in the case of
this
death, there's very little mystery.”
I asked, “Testing confirms your initial theory of an accidental fall?”
“Largely, yes.”
“What has me puzzled,” I said, putting on my glasses, taking out my pen and notebook, “is why the fall proved fatal. Even if Gillian was at the top of the ladder, up on the balcony, she was no more than ten feet or so above the floor. I've heard of people surviving much higher falls—several stories, in fact.”
“You're correct, Mark, but there are two types of fall, known as either ‘controlled' or ‘uncontrolled.' In a controlled, vertical fall, a person lands upright, on the feet. Upon impact, energy is absorbed by the feet and legs, which can cause great injury but still spare the vital organs. Falls of more than a hundred feet have been survived in this manner.”
“From the look of things,” said Doug, “I'm guessing Gillian didn't land on her feet.”
“Correct. And that's exactly what defines an uncontrolled fall, which can be fatal from even a short distance, as from a stepladder. Compounding the problem for Mrs. Reece, she landed on a stone floor, which is extremely unforgiving.”
I asked, “What did the autopsy show?”
“Massive head injury, shearing of the aorta, and most significantly, a snapped cervix—she broke her neck. Death came very quickly, if not instantly. I doubt that she suffered.”
I recalled, “She didn't even bleed.”
“I assure you, Mark, she bled a great deal internally.”
Doug asked, “Were you able to establish a more precise time of death?”
Formhals opened a folder on his desk and glanced at the top page inside. “My original estimate of eleven o'clock proved quite accurate. The victim died some thirty to sixty minutes prior to the time when Mark and his associate found her.”
Although the coroner seemed satisfied Gillian's death had been accidental, I was nonetheless grateful that Lucille Haring and I had been working in a crowded newsroom at the time of death. If the investigation were to take an unexpected turn, it might be handy to have a clear-cut alibi.
I asked Doug, “What about your examination of physical evidence at the scene? Any developments?”
He shook his head. “Nothing unexpected. There were fingerprints all over the place—very predictable at a construction site with numerous workers present. The
absence
of fingerprints on the ladder or the balcony railing would have triggered my suspicions, but there were so many sets of prints, they're impossible to sort out. Nor was there any other evidence of foul play—no faulty ladder rungs, no ripped buttons or torn clothing, no fistfuls of hair.

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