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Authors: Michael Craft

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Doug clarified, “We've identified the model, not the particular machine. Even in the computer age, typewriter forensics comes in handy now and then. On the basis of the type and a precise measurement of its spacing, we know the machine was a Royal manual from the 1940s. The specific model is rare enough that we stand a chance of tracking it down—unless, of course, it's stashed in the culprit's attic. It'll be a challenge, but we're working on it.”
I recalled another instance of a letter typewritten by a killer. Shortly after my arrival in Dumont, my cousin Joey Quatrain had found a portable Smith-Corona from his youth stored with some other junk at the house on Prairie Street. Its cloth ribbon was meant to print either black or red, but because the toggle above the keyboard was faulty, it printed both colors at once; the tops of the letters were black, the bottoms red. That machine, deemed useless, was eventually hauled away in a Goodwill truck with boxloads of other refuse, but not before it had left a crucial clue in helping us determine who had slain Joey's sister, my cousin Suzanne, mother of Thad Quatrain—who was consequently entrusted to my care.
Lost in these memories for a few moments, I hadn't realized that our conversation at the table had shifted topics. Doug was saying, “Sure, sometimes it's lonely, but I knew what I was getting into when I chose this career. Law enforcement is a full-time job.”
Todd eyed him skeptically. “We all have full-time jobs, Doug. And plenty of cops have wives or lovers. Where's that special person in your life?”
I knew from experience that questioning along these lines always made Doug squirm, so I fully expected him to skirt the issue of his love life, or lack of it, by steering the discussion down some other course, far less personal. Instead, he exhaled a pensive sigh, answering, “Maybe it's just that tired old excuse—maybe the right man hasn't come along.”
“Maybe he hasn't.” Todd paused meaningfully. “Or maybe he has.”
Neil and I looked at each other wide-eyed. The napkin in his hands was twisted in a knot.
“Suppose I turn the tables,” said Doug. “Where's the special person in
your
life—back in Chicago?” I regretted not having filled him in before dinner.
Todd shook his head gently. “There's no one.”
I thought Neil would jump in, saving Todd the discomfort of explaining that his lover had died. But Neil was curiously mute, looking distracted, as earlier that day, at lunch, when our conversation had touched on Todd and I had wanted to explore our inhibitions about Todd's come-on.
“There's
no one
?” asked Doug, incredulous. With a broad smile, he added, “What—or who—are you saving yourself for?”
Todd raised both palms. “Let me back up. There
was
someone, named Geoff. But he died in a car wreck a couple of years ago.”
“Oh, jeez, Todd, I'm sorry. God, that was clumsy of me. I didn't know—”
“It's okay, Doug. Of
course
you didn't know about it. And guess what. In spite of what happened, your question is no less valid. What
am
I saving myself for?”
Doug reached across the table and touched Todd's hand. “You're just giving yourself some time. I understand.” As Doug withdrew his hand, I heard a snap, a spark. Though it was tempting to attribute the sound to the electricity of physical attraction, it had probably emanated from the nearby fireplace.
“I've already given myself some time, Doug.” With a soft laugh, Todd recounted, “I had this very discussion with Mark and Neil when I arrived on Tuesday. I explained to them that night, and it's no less true now, that I'm finished grieving. It's time to find someone—or at least have a fling.” Todd sat back and crossed his arms with a smug grin. “In fact”—his eyes darted first to me, then to Neil—“I think I shocked our friends here when I suggested last night that a recreational tumble might be in order. It seems they weren't interested.”
“No kiddin'?” asked Doug, amused beyond measure.
“No kiddin'. They just weren't interested.” Todd leaned forward, asking quietly, “How about you, Doug?”
In the years since I had met Doug, I had known him to connect with another man, physically, only once. It was a fleeting encounter, and it damn near cost him the next election. Since then, he had kept his nose to the grindstone, a single-minded public servant, celibate as a priest (well, bad metaphor). Now here he sat, being openly propositioned by a handsome man—a curtain designer—in the chatty confines of the town's best restaurant. I expected him to freak, to flee, or at the very least, to decline Todd's offer in stammering confusion.
But no. He paused in thought, then told Todd, “Stranger things have happened. Time will tell.”
Neil's jaw sagged.
As Berta passed by, I caught her eye.
“Yes, Mr. Manning?”
“I think we'd better order now.”
Todd reminded her, “And don't forget that second round of drinks.”
D
inner was leisurely and, for a weeknight in Dumont, ran much later than our habit. Todd and Doug did most of the talking, and while their conversation was occasionally laced with innuendo, it was less heated than their initial flirtation. Neil and I didn't say much, eating our food without tasting it, speaking when questioned, doing our best to maintain a spirit of conviviality.
My mood had soured, and I wasn't sure why, not exactly. By all appearances, Todd and Doug were hitting it off, and I knew I should feel happy for Doug. Other than Neil, he was my closest friend in Dumont, and I had always felt he was much too wed to his work, that he deserved some love in his life, a touch of romance. While his prospects with Todd were uncertain, they had shared an evident spark of interest, which I knew I should encourage. Todd, after all, was well known to Neil, and I too had come to think of him as a friend, so it was not as if Doug was trifling with a suspicious or unknown character.
Poking at my food, I realized what was troubling me. And this discovery, far from lifting my spirits, only made me more vexed. My uneasiness, I was ashamed to admit, stemmed from base jealousy. The night before, Todd had made a sexual overture to Neil and me, a proposal in which I still found a fitful appeal. Now, before Neil and I had had the opportunity to discuss what had happened and to reach a mutual,
honest, reasoned response to this come-on, Todd had shifted gears and made his pitch to Doug Pierce, my best friend.
Compounding my distress was the latent attraction I had always felt for Doug, since the moment when we had met, on Christmas Day nearly four years earlier. I had never allowed expression of this attraction, cloaking it in the bounded intimacy of friendship, but the torch still fluttered, and I still carried it.
So the two guys making goo-goo eyes at each other over the table were the very two guys who had played a role in my fantasies, one of them for years, the other for a day or two. And now they were shutting me out.
The fourth guy at the table I had lived with and loved for nearly six years. Neil was my bedrock, my ultimate fantasy, and my friend. My life, my sense of self, had been redefined in terms of “us.” Day-to-day existence was unimaginable without him, so I knew that these other notions—experimenting with the bounds of our relationship—were inherently dangerous. What's more, I felt ashamed for even entertaining the thought that someone else could spice up our sex life. Eight years younger than I, Neil was no slouch in that department, and most men (that is, most sane, gay men) would be blissfully content to be known as his exclusive property in bed.
But he too was troubled. Having been so close to him for so long, I could easily decode his distracted manner, his minimal conversation, his indifference to Nancy's wonderful meal. All of these symptoms mirrored my own, so I knew that he too was struggling with the interplay between Todd and Doug. I was reasonably certain that he had never thought of Doug in any context other than that of friendship. Doug wasn't Neil's type; I was. But so was Todd, and now Neil clearly regretted having dismissed Todd's proposition so quickly and reflexively the night before. The result of all this emotional dithering was that Neil and I were both stuck in a thick stew of doubt. We needed to talk.
At meal's end, when Berta presented the check, Todd made a show of grabbing it and thrusting a credit card into Berta's palm.
“Hey,” said Doug, “that's mine.”
Todd said firmly, “I want to do this.”
“But that's too generous,” Doug persisted. “I hardly know you.”
“Sure you do. Any friend of Mark and Neil's is a friend of mine.”
Doug relented, “Then I owe you one.”
“Yeah. I guess you do.” Todd's double entendre was none too subtle.
 
We were last to leave the Grill that night. It was well past nine, and Dumont's main drag was dead. Doug and Todd draggled on the sidewalk for a minute or two, protracting their shared evening with small talk, at last saying good night with a hug; then Doug walked away to his car. Todd had ridden with Neil, and I had brought my own car from the
Register,
so we drove home separately, Neil leading.
Following, I noticed Todd in Neil's passenger seat, his head turned in profile, gabbing away. I reasoned he was asking Neil about Doug, wanting to know
everything
. Neil's head remained aimed straight ahead, eyes on the road. It seemed he had very little to say.
By the time we arrived home, set up the coffeemaker for the next morning, glanced at the day's mail, and locked up the house, it was just past ten. Still on a buzz from meeting Doug, Todd decided to stay up reading awhile.
Pleading fatigue—true enough—Neil and I went upstairs to our room.
We undressed without saying much, then stood together in the bathroom, brushing and flossing. Neil was naked; I always wore a loose pair of old cotton gym shorts during the transitions from daytime dress to bedtime nudity and back again (my sense of propriety, I guess).
After spitting mouthwash into the sink, Neil looked up at me in the mirror, saying, “In case you didn't get the message at the Grill, Todd's got the hots for Doug. I got an earful in the car. Think Doug's really interested?”
“He can be pretty hard to read.”
“Yeah.” Neil breathed a feeble laugh. “Especially in regard to
that
stuff.”
“What stuff?”
With a dramatic swoon and a fluttering of his eyelids, he amplified, “Affairs of the heart.”
Happy to see a touch of his old humor, I took him in my arms. “It's awkward for Doug. It seems so difficult for him. I hope he finds some happiness—in regard to
that
stuff.”
“What stuff?” With a sly grin, Neil slid his hand down my back, hooking his thumbs under the waistband of my shorts.
Nuzzling the side of his head, I whispered, “Affairs of the heart.” I kissed his ear, then slid my tongue into it.
With a groan, Neil went limp in my arms (my tried-and-true mode of foreplay, which seemed at once both simple and daring, never failed). “It's been a busy week,” he said, lolling his head on my shoulder.
“Meaning?” I took his head in my hands and brought his lips to mine, indulging in a deep kiss, intensely tasty—cinnamon and mint, our mingled mouthwash flavors.
“Meaning”—he pushed the waistband of my shorts beneath my buttocks—“we've been neglecting each other.”
“We've had a lot on our minds.” I didn't need to explain that I was referring to Todd Draper.
“
I'll
say.” Neil's thumbs circled to the front of my shorts, then nudged them past my penis, which bobbed free, making hot contact with his.
Letting my shorts drop to the floor, I stepped out of them and pulled Neil into a full-body embrace. “This is exactly where we belong.”
“Not exactly,” he said coyly.
“Hmm?” What, I wondered, did he have in mind? Was he thinking of Todd, downstairs, curled up with a book?
He clarified, “We belong in
bed
.” With an exaggerated wink, he reached to switch off the bathroom lights, then led me into the bedroom.
From either side of the bed, we pulled back the comforter and top sheet, dropping them to the floor, giving us a clean canvas, as it were, on which to perform. Neil switched off his bedside lamp; I checked the alarm on the clock radio before switching off mine. Then we both lay down, rolling to the center of the bed.
As our bodies met and we enjoyed another long, probing kiss, I realized
that neither of us was erect; somewhere between our first and second kiss, between the bathroom and the bed, we had both lost the prong of arousal. Perhaps the fussing with the bedding and the clock had blindsided our mission. Perhaps the cold sheets had taken a momentary toll. They would soon be heated up, I reasoned, and I was confident that both Neil and I would quickly be sporting an embarrassment of turgid riches, raring to go.
But after some prolonged snuggling, frenching, and general carrying-on, neither one of us had mustered much to work with. I then entertained Neil with another bout of ear-probing, but even that failed to produce the intended effect.
So we both hunkered down for some reciprocal oral stimulation. When we finally abandoned that effort, we were not only limp, but also wet, cold, and hopelessly shriveled. Hell, we even tried basic, old-fashioned hand jobs, both on ourselves and on each other—but still, no go.
What, I wondered, was going on? Deep inside, I already knew the answer. Without budging an inch from his book, Todd Draper had invaded our bed. The time, I sensed, was finally right for the heart-to-heart Neil and I had been postponing.
I let go of his penis and framed his face with my hands. With a smile I hoped he could read in the darkness, I said, “It seems we're both a bit distracted tonight.”
“Sorry. I hate to let you down.”
“Don't be nuts. It's a mutual thing.” After a moment's hesitation, I added, “I know what's on your mind, Neil. Let's talk about this.”
There was silence, then an airy sigh. Touching my lips, he said, “I'm so lucky to have you—and so grateful we don't need to keep secrets from each other.”
“That's what we're about. It's ‘us,' remember? We need to clear the air.”
“You're right, Mark”—I sensed him smiling back at me—“and so perceptive. Of
course
I killed Gillian. How did you piece it together?” Rolling away from me, he reached to switch on his lamp.
My eyes crackled at the assault of light.
My brain was spinning.
My heart, I swore, had stopped.
 
Neil hadn't said much all day, but the floodgates were now open. “You can't imagine what a relief it is to know we can finally
talk,”
he was saying as he reached from the foot of the bed and lugged the comforter up from the floor. By then I was sitting up, glassy-eyed and numb. Neil scrunched next to me, sitting with his legs crossed Indian-style, and wrapped us both in the downy duvet. Like kids huddled in a tent, camping in the backyard, I already felt terrified by the ghoulish story I would be told, sure of its outcome without knowing the particulars. Neil said, “I suppose you're wondering exactly how it happened.”
“Uh, yeah … ,” I managed to say, nodding uncertainly.
“Okay, I'll start at the beginning—well, the beginning of the part you don't know, after we both left the Reece house yesterday morning. We'd seen all those blowups with Gillian; then, around nine, you went to the paper. I went looking for Todd to see if I could get him back on the job.”
“Todd said you spotted his car at some coffee shop on the edge of town.”
“Right. A big Mercedes with Illinois plates—that was a no-brainer. But I didn't think the rest would be so easy. I mean, Gillian had
slapped
him, and frankly, I wouldn't have blamed him if he decided to pull his crew, dump the boxes on Gillian's lawn, send her a bill, and tell her to fuck herself. She deserved no better. But I was in a bind, and Todd—God love him—understood my predicament and took pity. He said he'd finish the job, but only if Gillian stayed out of the way till all the curtains were up and the photos were taken. I promised him she would cooperate, then returned to the house to lay down the law. That was sometime after ten.”
“Was Glee still there?” My features editor had arrived as we were leaving, and I recalled her telling me later that Gillian had kept her waiting for an hour while rushing the workers to finish their jobs.
Neil shook his head. “Glee's car was gone, and so were all the trucks. But Gillian's Bentley was still parked outside, along with one other car, which I didn't recognize. So I went inside to see what was
going on. As far as I was concerned, the job wasn't finished, so I walked through the front door unannounced, hoping to underscore that I still held a measure of authority on the premises. I wasn't two steps inside the foyer, though, when I realized Gillian was at it again.”
Warily, I asked, “At what?”
“At someone's throat, bitching up a storm in the living room. She was shrieking at some guy, who was yelling right back. I didn't know his voice, but they were arguing about the merger, and then, when Gillian derided him has ‘Twinky Tyler,' I realized he was the guy who's been looking over the agreements.”
I nodded. “Tyler Pennell. He was also at the Reece house on Tuesday afternoon, when you first took Glee and me on the tour. It was Tyler who was arguing with Gillian in the living room that day; I broke it up so Gillian could keep her appointment with Glee.”
“Ah,” said Neil. “Glee and I never saw him; I was showing her around the house. In any event, Tyler returned Wednesday morning, and I heard plenty. Standing in the hall, I wasn't intentionally eavesdropping. They were so loud, it was impossible not to hear them, and their argument was so bitter, it seemed wrong to intrude. So I just stood there and listened. Once I got the gist of their fight, I was so shocked I could barely breathe, let alone move.”

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