Dorien Grey book 12 The Angel Singers

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The Angel Singers

by Dorien Grey

CONTENTS

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Dedication

Life is the song. Love is the music

Foreword

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

About the Author

ABOUT THE ARTIST

* * * *

The Angel Singers

by Dorien Grey

THE ANGEL

SINGERS

A DICK HARDESTY MYSTERY

DORIEN GREY

The Angel Singers

by Dorien Grey

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places

and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are

used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons or events

is purely coincidental.

THE ANGEL SINGERS

ISBN 978-1-934841-07-5

Cover art and design by Martine Jardin

reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in

any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means now

known or hereafter invented, is prohibited without the written

permission of the author or publisher.

Zumaya Boundless is an imprint of Zumaya Publications LLC,

Austin TX. Look for us online at www.zumayapublications.com

The Angel Singers

by Dorien Grey

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Grey, Dorien.

The angel singers : a Dick Hardesty mystery / Dorien

Grey.

p. cm.

ISBN 978-1-934841-06-8 (trade pbk. : alk. paper)

1. Choirs (Music)—Fiction. 2. Gay men—Crimes against—

Fiction. I. Title.

PS3557.R48165A84 2008

813'.54—dc22

2008031765

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The Angel Singers

by Dorien Grey

Dedication

To those few whose voices raise the spirits of many

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The Angel Singers

by Dorien Grey

Life is the song. Love is the music

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The Angel Singers

by Dorien Grey

Foreword

Of all the gifts bestowed upon mankind, music is one of

the greatest and no musical instrument is older, more

versatile or has more power to move us than the human

voice. Anyone who doubts the power of that instrument need

only listen to Kate Smith singing "God Bless America."

When one voice becomes fifty or a hundred or more—think

of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir singing "Battle Hymn of the

Republic"—the power grows exponentially. It can literally

transfix, transform and empower us, raising us as close to the

angels as mortals can get.

The need and desire to sing together provides a sense of

unity, strength and power that has long been recognized by

organized religions. However, it equally serves the purposes

of minorities such as the gay community, which has given rise

to a number of choruses and chorales that enhance our sense

of unity, of belonging and of pride.

But though human voices joined together in song may

approach the divine, the individual humans involved are not

immune to the weaknesses, petty and major, that plague

humanity. And yet it is to our credit that, flawed though we

may be as individuals, we all still have the potential to be

angel-singers.

—Dick Hardesty

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The Angel Singers

by Dorien Grey

CHAPTER ONE

"Black pants are black pants," I said as we made our way

into yet another men's clothing store.

"No, they're not," Jonathan said. "They have to be the

right black pants and I haven't found them yet. I'll know them

when I do."

Joshua, who had been alternately munching from a small

bag of caramel corn and trying to wander off on his own,

announced simultaneously that he was thirsty and that he

had to go to the bathroom.

"Look," I said to Jonathan, "you go in and look around, and

I'll take Joshua to the bathroom and get him some water and

we'll meet you back here."

"I don't want water. I want a Coke!" Joshua declared.

"And I want a million dollars," I said, reaching for his free

hand. "Sometimes we just have to settle for what we can

get." I intended that little moral lesson for Jonathan as well

as Joshua, but it went right over both their heads.

Our ostensible reason for being in the mall was to buy

some fall and winter clothes for Joshua, who was growing like

a weed. But after that chore had been accomplished,

Jonathan had decided he needed a new pair of black pants for

the upcoming Gay Men's Chorus fall concert—his first with the

group—despite the performance being still two months away.

His involvement with the chorus had, as I'd suspected

when he first joined, taken up a lot more of his time than

either one of us liked. Going to school one night a week, plus

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by Dorien Grey

study time, added even more pressure on him. I have to

admit there were times when I mildly resented not only the

loss of his company but the additional responsibilities I had to

assume with Joshua while he was gone. But he loved it, which

is all that really mattered, and between us, we managed to

keep everything under control.

Things would lighten up a bit after the concert—one of the

three the chorus put on each year. It was to be held

November 17, three days after my birthday, at Atheneum

Hall, the city's largest and most prestigious music venue. This

would be the first time any gay group had ever performed

there, and it was a real coup for the entire community.

I was also getting something of an education on the

subject of choruses. I'd never known that a chorus was

composed of only one sex, whereas choirs and chorales were

a mixture of men and women. Jonathan told me he was

classified as a "tenor 2" and I hadn't a clue what that meant

until he explained that a "tenor 1" is someone who can hit the

really high notes; a "tenor 2" had a lower range, but still

higher than baritones. Who knew?

One of the reasons I had originally encouraged Jonathan to

join the chorus was so that it would gave him the chance to

meet new people outside our own little circle of close

friends—all of whom had been friends of mine before

Jonathan came along. I thought he should have some friends

of his own, independent of me.

As I soon found out, I may have gotten a bit more than I

bargained for. The chorus was, at least on the surface, a very

friendly and supportive group. In addition to once-a-week

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by Dorien Grey

Tuesday night rehearsals at the Metropolitan Community

Church, there were also what they called "sectionals," where

several of the basses or baritones or tenors would get

together at various members' homes to practice their specific

parts.

And several times a year there was a general get-together

at the home of Crandall Booth, one of the chorus's major

financial backers/supporters and a member of its board of

directors. Chorus members were encouraged to bring their

partners—and, in the case of Jonathan and me and two other

couples, their children—to these gatherings.

All of this ate into the already-limited time Jonathan and I

had to do "us" things. Still, I was rather looking forward to

one of Booth's events, and I knew Joshua would be in seventh

heaven, since he could be the center of attention of a lot of

adults and have a couple of other kids close to his age to play

with.

Over the course of the weeks, I got to know not only

something of how a chorus was made up, but a few through-

Jonathan's-eyes glimpses into what went on behind the

scenes.

The night of Jonathan's first rehearsal Roger Rothenberger,

the chorus's director, had, as he did with all new members,

assigned him a "buddy" to help ease his way into the

organization—introduce him around, show him the ropes, and

explain and answer questions on procedures. Jonathan's

buddy was a kid named Eric Speers, and the two of them hit

it off immediately. So, when Jonathan suggested inviting Eric

over for dinner, I readily agreed. I was curious to meet him,

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by Dorien Grey

and figured it would give me a little better insight into this

new part of Jonathan's life.

He said that Eric had been with the chorus since it began

five years previously, and was deeply devoted to and involved

in it. He was also the peacemaker of the group, which was

apparently, as are most groups, both tight-knit and

contentious.

It's inevitable that whenever you get fifty or so artistic gay

men together the road is not without its bumpy stretches.

There were the inevitable cliques, feuds and rivalries that

afflict any group of humans, and Jonathan always brought

home a doggie bag of the latest bits of gossip he'd heard at

rehearsals. I've never gone in much for gossip, but Jonathan

got such a kick out of observing all the various behind-therisers

intrigues and took such delight in sharing them with me

that I couldn't complain. It was rather like watching one of

those guilty-pleasure soap operas on TV, although the cast

members of the chorus dramas were not all as drop-dead

gorgeous as their on-screen counterparts.

There were even a few hush-hush allusions to a conflict

between Rothenberger and Crandall Booth, and to Booth's

alleged financial ties to some rather shady types. I didn't give

any weight to the latter, since I knew that Glen O'Banyon, the

city's preeminent gay lawyer, for whom I frequently did work,

was also a member of the chorus's board; and if there had

been any solid basis to the allegations, Glen would not be

associated with Booth in any way.

Rothenberger, Jonathan told me, had been born and raised

here then moved to New York and started singing with the

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by Dorien Grey

New York City Gay Men's Chorus, and eventually became an

assistant director. He'd then gone on to direct one or two

other groups before moving back here. In addition to the Gay

Men's Chorus, he also directed the choir at the M.C.C.

I'd seen him at the last concert, the one that had

prompted Jonathan to want to join. Rothenberger had

reminded me of an opera star—portly to the point of being

rotund, full beard, somewhat imperious manner, in absolute

control when it came to leading the chorus. Jonathan reported

that Rothenberger's mantra at every rehearsal and before

every concert was "Remember, when you talk, you're human.

When you sing, you're angels," and everyone in the chorus

apparently thought the world of him.

The most recent tempest in the choral teapot was created

by a member who joined not too long before Jonathan, and

who happened to be Crandall Booth's nephew. There's

nothing like a little nepotism to get things heated up, and the

controversy was compounded by the nephew, Grant

Jefferson, apparently being something of a pain in the ass.

Jonathan, of course, always prefers to see the good in

everyone, but even he found it a little difficult to find much

positive to say about Grant.

"He's really good-looking," he conceded, "and he does

have a nice voice," which, coming from Jonathan, I took to be

something of a case of damning with faint praise.

Possibly another reason why I allowed myself to be

vicariously caught up in the goings-on of the chorus was that

my work, while fairly steady, had lately tended to be far less

than the stuff of which detective novels are made. For the

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by Dorien Grey

past two weeks or so, I had been caught up in a "case"—if it

could even be called that—so stupifyingly dull I'd have much

preferred to watch paint dry. Suffice it to say it involved a

client with more money than intelligence who was on a

vendetta against a former business partner and wasn't going

to let a little thing like his case not having a leg to stand on

get in his way. I finally gave up trying to convince him he was

wasting his money and resigned myself to the conclusion that

if he was going to throw his money away, he might as well

throw some of it at me.

So I spent an inordinate amount of time running off in

whatever new direction he pointed me. I could and should

have quit; however, my mantra was, "It isn't the principle of

the thing, it's the money."

* * * *

Eric was set to arrive for dinner at six-thirty Friday. I was

at the office when Jonathan called at three to tell me there

was a work emergency that necessitated his driving to

Neeleyville with his boss, and he probably wouldn't be able to

make it home until seven. He didn't have Eric's number with

him and, having no way to reach him, asked if I could pick

Joshua up from daycare, put dinner in the oven and entertain

Eric until he got home.

"I'm really sorry, Dick," he said. "I didn't know this was

going to happen. I—"

"No problem, babe," I said. I wasn't quite sure what I

could do to entertain someone I'd never met before, but it

wasn't a major issue.

The Angel Singers

by Dorien Grey

Joshua was standing on the front porch with Estelle

Bronson, one of the daycare owners, when I arrived at five

after four. I'd have been there ten minutes earlier had the

city not been digging up exactly the same three-block section

of the street they'd dug up the year before and, naturally, a

major intersection was involved.

Seeing me pull up, Joshua bounded off the porch and

headed full gallop for the thankfully closed front gate.

Estelle's call drew him up short, and he stood stock-still until

she caught up with him and opened the gate as I leaned over

to open the passenger door.

"Bye!" Joshua called to her as he clambered onto the front

seat. Estelle and I exchanged a quick greeting, and then,

seeing Joshua was safely seatbelted—admittedly not the best

of fits—she closed the door and headed back to the house.

"Where's Uncle Jonathan?" he asked as we pulled away

from the curb. Though it was not at all unusual for me to pick

him up when Jonathan couldn't for one reason or another, he

always asked.

"He was busy," I explained, as I explained every time it

happened. Joshua's response was always the same, too.

"Oh."

The ride home was largely taken up with a detailed and

dramatized accounting of his day at "school," accompanied by

the requisite gestures and facial expressions. Although he still

had not totally mastered the concept of linear thought, he

was getting much better at it, and I had gotten pretty good at

stepping over the chasms and seeing around the corners of

his narrative. This one centered on the Bronsons'

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by Dorien Grey

acquisition—whether permanently or on loan wasn't clear—of

a rabbit and a tortoise. It seems they had been the basis of a

story about a race, which he related to me in detail, omitting

only the moral of the tale.

As soon as we got home, I turned the oven on and waited

for it to heat. We'd bought a good-sized pork tenderloin the

last time we were at the store in anticipation of Eric's visit, so

all I basically had to do was put it and the potatoes in, which

I held off doing until the first commercial break in the evening

news. To forestall the possibility of Joshua's starving to death

before dinner, I gave him a large plum and a small glass of

milk after he'd helped me set the table.

At six-twenty, the door buzzer rang, announcing Eric's

arrival. I opened the door to find a rangy reddish-blond about

Jonathan's age and height. He had freckles and the kind of

almost impish face that always reminded me of a

leprechaun—in his case, a very tall leprechaun.

We shook hands and did the mutual introductions, and I

showed him in. Joshua, as always upon hearing someone at

the door, had come bounding out of his room so as not to

miss anything.

"Joshua, this is Eric," I said by way of introduction, and

when Eric smiled and said "Hello, Joshua," and extended his

hand I noticed an uncustomary moment's hesitation on

Joshua's part before he took it. As soon as Eric released his

hand, Joshua moved close against me, leaning against my

leg, which also struck me as a little odd.

I explained that Jonathan would be a little late getting

home.

The Angel Singers

by Dorien Grey

"And I'm a little early," he said. "I hope you don't mind.

I'm afraid I'm always so worried about being late that I

always end up being too early."

"A man after my own heart," I said, offering to take his

light jacket, which he removed and handed to me with

thanks. I in turn handed the jacket to Joshua. "Would you

take this into our room for me, Joshua?"

He gave me a slightly resentful look, then took it and went

toward our bedroom.

"Make yourself at home. Can I get you a drink?"

"Sure, that would be nice," he replied, moving to the couch

to sit down. "Whatever you're having."

"A manhattan okay?" I asked. I'd held off having mine

awaiting his arrival.

"I love manhattans!" he said. "You've obviously got good

taste."

As I excused myself to go into the kitchen, Joshua followed

me closely.

"I want one, too!" he said. He knew I always gave him a

glass of soda whenever I had my evening drink, so I was a

little puzzled by his demanding attitude.

Then I recalled that lately, whenever Jonathan spoke of

Eric, as he often did, and with the enthusiasm of someone

with a new friend, Joshua had been reacting in a way far out

of character for him. It struck me now that he may have felt

threatened by Eric's entrance into Jonathan's life.

I fixed the drinks and carried them into the living room,

grabbed a couple of coasters, handing one to Eric with his

drink, gave Joshua his soda—he insisted on two maraschino

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by Dorien Grey

cherries in it rather than his usual one—then sat in the chair

closest to the couch. Joshua settled in my lap.

Ooooo-kay. We have a little problem here.

"Jonathan told me he had a lot of fish and plants," Eric

commented, nodding toward the aquarium, "but I didn't

realize he had this many."

"Jonathan operates on the theory that if some is good, a

lot is better." I took a sip of my drink. "So, I understand

you've been with the chorus from the very beginning."

"Yep. And I've only missed four rehearsals. Sometimes I

think I really need to get a life of my own. But I can't imagine

one without the chorus."

"I think I can understand that," I said. "I know Jonathan

really seems to enjoy it. I appreciate your being his buddy."

Joshua squirmed on my lap.

Eric grinned. "Yeah, Jonathan's a great kid. We get along

really well. He's got a lot to learn yet, though."

I was mildly amused by his referring to Jonathan as a "kid"

when he couldn't have been more than a year older, if that.

And I had no idea what his last sentence meant.

"Like what, other than the music?" I asked.

Eric looked at me closely and gave me a rather enigmatic

smile. "Nothing, really. Only, sometimes, I think he might be

a little too nice for his own good. I hope you don't mind my

saying so. I've told him several times."

"I don't follow," I said.

"He's still at the starry-eyed stage," he explained. "He likes

everybody and accepts anything people say, and that's not

always a good idea. Roger is always telling us that when we

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by Dorien Grey

talk, we're human; when we sing, we're angels. Well, we do a

lot more talking than singing, if you know what I mean. There

are a few guys there who'd as soon cut your throat as look at

you. I don't think Jonathan has realized that yet, and I don't

want him to get hurt."

I didn't know what kind of hurt he might be referring to,

but knowing Jonathan, I suspected it wasn't so much a matter

of his not realizing what was going on as not wanting to think

ill of anyone until he had specific reason to.

Joshua handed me his empty glass. "I want some more,"

he declared.

"We'll be having dinner soon," I said. "I don't want you to

fill up on soda and spoil your appetite. Why don't you go play

with some of your toys?"

He shot me a dirty look, hopped off my lap and hustled to

his room, returning with his large block of Lincoln Logs, which

he proceeded to empty on the floor and begin to build a

house.

"Jonathan tells me you're the peacemaker of the group," I

said, trying to ignore Joshua's actions. "That can't be easy."

He shrugged. "It's not, always," he said. "Usually, it's a lot

like third grade, with little cliques and minor rivalries and

feuds. Roger hasn't got the time to do everything and,

besides, he's the director. But every now and then things

come close to getting out of control, like it's been doing since

Grant came on board. And that really worries me."

"Crandall Booth's nephew."

Eric grinned. "Riiight. 'Nephew.'"

I clearly heard the quotes around nephew.

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"You don't think they're related?" I asked, though I'd

already come to that conclusion.

Eric gave me a calculated, raised-eyebrow look. "Puhleeese!

Crandall's got more money than God, and Grant

wants to go to Broadway. Grant comes to rehearsals in a

baby-blue Porsche. Crandall's family came over on the

Mayflower, and Grant's got a mouth like a truck driver. You

figure it out."

That Grant drove a Porsche didn't surprise me, since I

knew a large chunk of Crandall Booth's money came from his

ownership of several luxury car dealerships.

"What does he do for a living?" I asked.

"Other than Crandall, you mean?"

"Uh, yeah."

"Grant claims he has a business degree, but if he ever

even finished college, I'd be surprised. Crandall gave him a

job in the central accounting department for all his

dealerships. To hear Grant tell it, he practically runs the

place, but a guy I know works there and say's Grant's just a

glorified gofer. I understand he's always running to Crandall

bitching about how the department head runs the place. How

in hell Crandall puts up with it, I'll never know."

"So, what's Grant's problem with the chorus?"

Eric sighed. "Look, if he'd come in like everybody else, it

would have been fine. But he acts like he owns the place. And

he thinks he's God's gift to men—he comes on to everyone,

especially the guys he knows are in a relationship. Like I said,

there's already enough bickering and jealousy going on. It's

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not always pretty and can get downright mean some-times,

but it's all sort of like family.

"Grant isn't family, and makes it obvious that he doesn't

want to be. But that doesn't stop him from playing his games

and starting his own little clique. He's a real manipulator, and

if some people are two-faced, Grant's got at least a dozen. He

doesn't give a damn about the chorus. He'll say or do

whatever he thinks will help him get what he wants."

"And what does he want?"

"Aside from everybody else's boyfriend? Well, at the

moment, among other things, he wants the solo in 'I Am

What I Am,' which will be the biggest showstopper at our next

concert."

"La Cage aux Folles!" I said. "Jonathan said you were

doing it and you're sure right about its being a showstopper.

Some friends of ours in New York saw the show and

immediately sent us the cast recording. We must have

listened to it a hundred times and 'I Am What I Am' grabs me

by the throat every time. Talk about gay pride!"

"Well, Grant wants the solo on it, though Roger's given it

to Jim Bowers, who has a fantastic voice. He's a bass and

Grant's a high baritone. Either one can do it, but Jim is

perfect for it and he has the presence. When he sings it, he

means it. I don't think Grant has a clue what the song means.

But he badmouths Jim every chance he gets."

"I gather you don't care much for him."

"You could say that. He reminds me a lot of my brother."

"He looks like him?"

He shrugged. "Sort of."

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He didn't follow up on that, so neither did I. But I thought

it was an interesting statement, and was the first specific

reference to his family I'd heard him make.

The conversation, frequently interrupted by Joshua's

insisting I look at and approve the progress of his Lincoln log

project, gradually segued into the general exchange of

information that inevitably passes between two people who've

just met. Eric seemed fascinated by my being a private

investigator and having my own office.

"I'd love to come down and see it sometime," he said, and

I assured him it was hardly worth the trip, but that he was

welcome.

Jonathan had told me Eric worked at the distribution

warehouse for the Home 'n' Yard hardware store chain and

had a small apartment on the East Side. When I did ask about

his family, I was surprised to learn that his parents and older

brother had been killed in an accident when he was fourteen.

"It was the Fourth of July," he said casually, and I detected

a note of irony in his voice. I was, of course, curious and

expected him to elaborate, but when he didn't, I didn't press

him. I wasn't sure whether he had simply been able to accept

their deaths and move on or if he didn't want to or couldn't

deal with it on other than a casual level.

Jonathan arrived home just as I'd gone into the kitchen to

check on dinner and to make Eric and myself another drink.

The minute he came in the door, Joshua jumped up from his

project, destroying whatever it was he'd been building, and

ran for a welcome-home hug.

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As Jonathan moved across the room to join Eric on the

couch, followed closely by Joshua, I stepped to the kitchen

doorway to ask if Jonathan wanted a Coke.

"I want one!" Joshua declared, and I was truly puzzled by

the undertone of belligerence I detected in his voice. This

certainly was not Joshua.

"I told you we'll be eating soon, and you've already had

your drink. We don't want you to get drunk. Those cherries

are pretty potent."

Jonathan gave me a puzzled look and I gave him a raisedeyebrow

"later" signal.

But Joshua was not about to give up. Turning to Jonathan,

he pleaded, "But I'm thirsty!"

Jonathan, still puzzled, looked at me again.

"Okay," I said, caving in as I far too often did, "but only

half a glass, and no cherries"

When I brought the drinks into the living room, I noted

Joshua had planted himself firmly between Jonathan and Eric,

and was sitting as close to Jonathan as he could get.

He's jealous! a mind-voice said, pointing out what should

have been obvious to me from the minute Eric came in. And I

realized for perhaps the first time how insensitive I tended to

be when it came to not recognizing how everything that went

on in Jonathan's and my lives also affected Joshua.

Jonathan's being gone at least two nights a week was

disruptive, and while I did my best to pay attention to Joshua

and play with him, it wasn't quite the same when he was used

to having both me and Jonathan at hand. Our social circle

was relatively small and made up of couples who had been

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part of Joshua's life since he first came to us. Eric was a

brand new element, and Joshua quite probably saw

Jonathan's enthusiasm in having a friend all his own as

competition. And before I wrote that off as Joshua's just

being a kid I had to stop and think of the many adults I know

who tend to react in the same way.

Eric made several references during the evening to how

much he envied Jonathan and me our relationship. From what

he said, I gathered he'd never had a long-term relationship

and very much wanted one. I knew from experience that

platitudes such as "Well, you've got plenty of time" really

didn't mean much when one wants something now.

Dinner went well, except for Joshua's tendency to

deliberately interrupt Eric on several occasions with his

attempts to get Jonathan's attention. Jonathan finally told him

gently but firmly that it was not polite to interrupt. Eric was

gracious enough to appear not to notice.

"Are you coming to Crandall Booth's next gathering?" Eric

asked as Jonathan refilled his wineglass.

"Is there a date for it? I hadn't heard." Jonathan offered to

refill my glass, but I raised my hand to indicate I was okay.

"A week from Sunday. Roger will be announcing it on

Tuesday," Eric said. "I was talking to him last night."

"Isn't that pretty short notice?" Jonathan asked.

Eric took a sip of his wine and shrugged. "That's the way

Booth does it. I think he tends to have some control issues,

and I know Roger doesn't like it. But because Crandall's a

major financial backer and a member of the board, he can do

stuff like that."

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"Well, I'm looking forward to it," Jonathan said.

"I want to go, too!" Joshua declared, which struck me as a

little aggressive. Usually he would put his request in the form

of a question.

"We wouldn't go without you," Jonathan said, reaching

over to put his arm around the boy's shoulders.

After dinner, I asked Joshua to come help me clean up the

kitchen and put the dishes in the washer, to give Jonathan

and Eric a chance to talk; but he would have none of it until

Jonathan said, "Joshua, go help Uncle Dick. He needs you."

The minute the last dish was done, Joshua was back in the

living room.

* * * *

Around eight-thirty, seeing it was close to Joshua's

bedtime and knowing he would be very unwilling to go, I said,

"Hey, Joshua, are you about ready to take your shower?"

I hoped the mention of a shower would, given his behavior

most of the evening, offset the chances for a tantrum, since

to his mind taking a shower was synonymous with being a

grownup. Jonathan gave me a quick look then realized what I

was doing and told Joshua to go get his new pair of pajamas

from his room.

Ever since he'd recovered from his recent appendectomy,

we'd been trying to give Joshua more independence and

responsibility when it came to taking care of himself. While

we didn't have any standard yardstick of five-year-old

behavior to measure how his development compared to other

five-year-olds, or even if we were treating him in an ageThe

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appropriate manner, we tried using common sense and

playing things by ear. As far as we knew, he was doing very

well.

When he came out of the bedroom, I excused myself and

went with him into the bathroom for his evening gettingready-

for-bed routine. He wanted Jonathan to do the honors,

but Jonathan said, "It's Uncle Dick's turn. You go with him." I

was vastly relieved when this did not provoke a cloudburst.

Maybe he was just getting tired of sulking.

We had started alternating his regular tub baths with

occasional showers, which he took as a true sign that getting

his own car and going off to college weren't far away. Still,

showers were a little tricky in that they required our turning

the water on for him and adjusting it before he got in, thus

invariably getting ourselves at least partly wet, then watching

him closely through the glass so he didn't try to tinker with

the controls. The first few times had involved either Jonathan

or me getting into a bathing suit and actually getting in the

shower while he mastered shampooing and soaping.

When he was through, we'd open the door to turn off the

water and have him step out of the shower and stand on a

towel during the drying-off stage, which he was also getting

used to doing for himself. He seemed to be under the

impression that if he couldn't see it it didn't need drying, so

we usually had to do at least some touch-up with the towel.

Actually, it was probably a lot more trouble than dunking

him in the tub as we always had, but we figured it was

important to him to feel more grown up.

* * * *

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When we returned to the living room, Eric and Jonathan

were standing by the bookcase, and I saw Eric had a copy of

one of Jonathan's favorite books by Morgan Butler.

"It's great," Jonathan said. "You'll love it. Just bring it back

when you're through with it."

Joshua, wanting to milk his staying-up time to the

maximum, immediately ran over to his Lincoln Logs set as

though he'd just discovered he had them, sat cross-legged on

the floor and began reconstructing the project he'd begun

earlier, asking Jonathan to come help him.

"It's a little late to start building a fort tonight, don't you

think?" Jonathan asked.

"We can build a house," he said and, noting Jonathan's

raised eyebrow, quickly added, "A little one."

"Okay," Jonathan said. "You go ahead and build your

house. Twenty minutes. Then bed." He then returned to

talking and laughing with Eric.

When the twenty minutes were up, the total experiment in

being a big boy went out the window. Told it was time to go

to bed, he obediently put his Lincoln Logs away, then

marched over to Jonathan.

"Let's go read a story," he said.

"I'll read the story tonight," I said. "Let's let Uncle

Jonathan and Eric talk."

That did it! Major, major tantrum of Oscar-nomination

proportions. He didn't want me to read him his story. He

wanted Uncle Jonathan to read him his story. Nobody else.

Uncle Jonathan.

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Okay, that did it. Taking a deep breath, I scooped him off

the floor, tossed him over my shoulder and carried him

kicking and yelling into his bedroom. Closing the door, I

dropped him on the bed like a sack of potatoes.

He hopped off the bed, headed for the door. I scooped him

up and put him back on the bed. Off the bed. Back on.

Finally, he curled into a fetal ball and covered his head with

his arms.

"I hate you!" he yelled, though the yell was muffled by his

elbows.

I put my hand on his shoulder and he jerked away.

"Well, I'm sorry to hear you say that," I said. "Because I

don't hate you. I love you. Uncle Jonathan loves you, too. You

know that."

No response.

I was really at something of a loss as to how to handle the

situation.

"Joshua," I said finally, "you're getting to be a bigger boy

every day, and someday soon you'll be all grown up..." If my

patience holds out, I thought. "And much as we all hate it, we

have to learn that we can't always have things the way we

want them."

His silence clearly said he wasn't buying it.

"Okay," I said. "Now, do you want me to read you a story

or not?"

"No!" he said, and I got up to leave the room. I was

reaching for the knob when he started sobbing.

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Oh, Jeesuz! I went back to the bed and sat down beside

him and cradled him, not having a clue as to what I was

supposed to do.

A moment later the door opened and Jonathan came in,

looking worried. He quickly moved over to sit beside me.

"Here," he said, reaching toward me, "give him to me. You

go out and keep Eric company. I'll be right out."

I passed Joshua, whose sobs had subsided to the softer,

gulping-air variety, to him and left the room.

"Sorry about that," I said as I returned to the living room.

"I know you have no reason to believe me, but he's never like

this."

Eric gave me a soft smile. "I understand," he said.

"Jonathan told me what happened to his folks. It must be

hard for a little kid like that. You guys have done a great job

with him."

"Thanks," I said. "He's really a great kid ... usually."

When Jonathan hadn't appeared after another five

minutes, Eric said "Look, I'd really better be heading on

home."

"Don't rush off," I said. "Jonathan should be out any

minute now."

As if on cue, the door to Joshua's room opened, and

Jonathan stepped out.

"I'm so sorry, Eric!" he said. "I don't know what got into

him tonight."

Eric got up from the sofa. "Don't worry about it. Kids are

kids."

I got up, too. "I'll get your jacket."

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"You're not leaving, are you?" Jonathan protested.

"Yeah, I've got to go in to work tomorrow. I hate working

Saturdays, but they keep asking me to come in, and I can use

the money, so..."

We said our goodbyes and "Thanks for coming"/"Thanks

for having me" pleasantries and he left.

As soon as he'd gone, Jonathan shook his head. "I

honestly don't know what got into Joshua tonight. He's never

acted like that before."

"Well, maybe not around company," I corrected, "but he's

pretty good in the hissy-fit department, as I'm sure you've

noticed."

We sat together on the couch. "Did he say anything?" I

asked.

"That we don't love him," Jonathan said, "and that broke

my heart."

I patted him on the leg. "As it was intended to do," I said.

"Remember, five-year-olds are more emotion than logic. Of

course he knows we love him; he just needs constant

reassurance."

"I don't know how much more reassurance we could give

him than we already do," Jonathan said, entwining his fingers

in mine.

"He's jealous of Eric, I think," I said. "He's used to our

friends, but Eric is your friend and he feels left out."

"That's nonsense!"

"Yeah, but try explaining nonsense to a five-year-old. It

will take him a while to get used to it, but he will."

"I suppose," he conceded.

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We talked for awhile about the evening, then watched

some TV and went to bed.

As Jonathan leaned across me to turn off the light, he said,

"And as if this Joshua thing wasn't bad enough, now I have to

start watching my back."

"What are you talking about?"

"Eric thinks you're hot. He told me when you were busy

with Joshua. I'd better watch out, or he'll snatch you away in

a heartbeat."

I reached up to pull him to me for a bear hug.

"I don't think you need to lose too much sleep over that

one," I said. Still, it was flattering to hear.

[Back to Table of Contents]

The Angel Singers

by Dorien Grey

CHAPTER TWO

The next week passed quickly. Joshua returned to his old

self, though I was well aware there was nothing to set him

off, and Tuesday night after chorus rehearsal Jonathan

verified the Sunday-afternoon gathering at Crandall Booth's

estate.

One feature of Booth's get-togethers was a brief

performance of a few of the numbers the chorus was working

on. Booth insisted on it, ostensibly so the members' partners

could feel a little closer to what their other halves were doing;

but it was also a subtle way for him to wield a bit of power by

expecting a command performance. I understood

Rothenberger wasn't too wild about that aspect, but went

along with it out of political necessity.

The "case" I'd been working on finally came to an end, and

I had a couple other little assignments to fill my time, none of

which were particularly difficult or interesting.

Since we were to be at the Booth estate by two on Sunday

and had been told he always served a light buffet, we had a

larger-than-usual breakfast before Jonathan and Joshua went

to church then ate a tide-us-over lunch when they returned

and left the apartment around one-fifteen.

Booth lived, not surprisingly, in Briarwood, the city's

wealthiest subdivision, his property backing onto the

Birchwood Country Club's world-class golf course. Since most

Briarwood residents also belonged to the country club, they

could get around the ban on street parking by arranging with

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the club to use the parking lot—well, one specific section of

their lot, on the edge farthest away from the clubhouse—for

large private parties, and for the club to provide bus shuttle

service to the partygiver's home.

We arrived as a bus was pulling up to the designated pickup

point, and there were probably eight other guys waiting,

including two with a little girl around Joshua's age. Jonathan

waved to the ones he knew, and we hurried to catch the bus

before it left.

Booth, I was interested to realize, lived on the same street

as my former clients Arnold and Iris Glick—having been to

their home numerous times, I had a good idea of how the

other half lived. Jonathan had been to Briarwood on

landscaping projects with the nursery for which he worked but

hadn't had much of a chance to see the interiors of any of the

homes. Suffice it to say that Versailles would not have been

too much out of place in Briarwood.

The bus dropped us off in front of a Southern Colonial gem

that would have made Tara from Gone With the Wind look

like a sharecropper's shack, all gleaming colonnades and

manicured lawns and flowerbeds. We followed the crowd

down the drive that ran beside the house to the gated

backyard. Like the Glick's home, there was a huge pool and a

large poolhouse. Because winter was on its way, the pool was

covered with a heavy tarp, but the day was comfortable and

chairs were arranged around the end closest to the cabana.

It was a little hard to tell how many people were there

when we arrived—I'd judge around thirty-five or so. I

gathered attendance by every chorus member was not

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mandatory, though I'm sure most went if only to experience a

taste of life in Valhalla. I had no way of knowing who was a

member of the chorus and who was a partner. Eric was

nowhere to be seen, though I caught a glimpse of

Rothenberger at one of the buffet tables talking with a man I

was sure I knew until I realized that, while I didn't know him,

he was the spitting image of a fifty-year-old Orson Welles.

I suspected this might be our host, Crandall Booth.

I noted that a table immediately inside the cabana and

closest to the pool held two large coffee carafes and ice-filled

tubs of canned and bottled soda. No alcohol, which was

probably just as well.

Jonathan was busy greeting people he knew and

introducing me and Joshua and meeting members' partners—

all rather chaotic in a genteel sort of way. I managed to

eventually meet nearly everyone, with the exception of a

strikingly handsome blond. Jonathan made no effort to either

greet or introduce him, and I deduced that this must be the

notorious Grant Jefferson.

Joshua was a little overwhelmed; he wasn't used to being

surrounded by so many adults and kept very close to

Jonathan and me. The couple with the little girl—Ralph and

Peter, if I remembered right from our brief introduction on the

bus—came over with ... Brooke ... and we talked for a bit.

Brooke was clutching a plastic cup of cola, obviously sharing

Joshua's confusion, and the two largely ignored one another.

Joshua tugged my elbow.

"I'm thirsty," he said and I excused myself and led him

through the crowd to the drink table.

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An hour or so passed in a blur of pleasant-enough, if often

truncated, conversations and introductions, including one to

Roger Rothenberger, who impressed me as a really nice guy.

He went out of his way to make a fuss over Joshua, which of

course pleased the boy. A short while later, I observed him

and Booth outside by the pool in what appeared to be a

rather animated conversation.

Eric showed up some time after we did but with so much

coming and going it was hard to keep everyone straight ... as

it were. Interspersed with the conversations and general

milling around, Jonathan, Joshua and I made a couple of trips

to the beverage and buffet tables, Joshua insisting on

sampling everything to the point where we had to tell him to

slow down or he'd be sick.

Jonathan had earlier introduced me to a chorus member

named Tony, who in turn introduced his non-member

partner—Jerry, if my memory served. It seemed that every

time I looked at Jerry, he seemed to be glaring holes through

the blond I assumed to be Grant Jefferson, and I called that

to Jonathan's attention, asking what was going on.

"I'm not sure," Jonathan said, "but probably Grant was

hitting on Tony. He gets a kick out of doing that."

At about three-fifteen, Rothenberger began herding all the

chorus members to the back of the poolhouse, where I'd

earlier noticed a piano and three-step tier of risers set up on

a raised platform. By ones and twos, the chorus members

split off from the rest of us and moved toward and then onto

the risers. Jonathan excused himself and went to join the

others. Finally, the crowd was divided into two distinct

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groups, about forty on the risers and maybe twenty or so

clustered in the center of the room. Crandall Booth, who had

been standing by the risers talking with various chorus

members, finally moved back toward the rest of us as

Rothenberger went to the front of the dais and turned to

address us.

"On behalf of the entire chorus, I'd like to thank Mister

Booth for his hospitality, and by way of showing our

gratitude, we'd like to perform two of the numbers we're

working on for our next concert. Please bear with us—there

are still a few small lumps in the gravy, and we don't have

quite a full complement today, but we hope you enjoy it."

A very handsome young man sat down at the piano, and

Rothenberger turned to the chorus. As he raised his arms, I

heard him say, "And now, my angels..."

I'd kept my eyes on Jonathan every minute, one hand on

Joshua's shoulder to forestall his deciding to wander off, until

I heard a very soft "I ... am ... what I am..." in a beautiful

bass voice and my attention shifted to the source—a short,

heavy-set guy in the front row to whom I'd been introduced

earlier as Jim Bowers. As the song called for, his voice picked

up confidence, and as he stepped off the riser onto the

platform, the piano and rest of the chorus joined in smoothly.

The tempo and power picked up in the second section and

built into and through the full-force and defiant final last

notes. I had a lump in my throat and a light feeling in my

chest, and I could sense my reactions were shared by most of

the guys in the room.

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Bowers stepped back up on the riser, and there was a full

five seconds of silence before a thunderclap of applause and

cheers. Twenty-some people can produce a surprisingly loud

ovation. Those chorus members standing closest to Bowers

turned toward him in acknowledgment and joined in the

applause. Then, on Rothenberger's cue, they all took a bow.

After a moment, when everyone had settled down,

Rothenberger turned back to the chorus and raised his arms

again for "The Battle Hymn of the Republic." I must say, the

man had managed to pick the most powerful, dramatic

rendition of the song he could find.

I couldn't take my eyes off Jonathan. I stared at him so

intently that everything around him became blurry, and the

only thing clear and sharp was his face. He wasn't looking at

me—or at anything other than Rothenberger. His face was a

mix of total concentration and utter joy.

I'd never realized until that moment exactly how much he

loved singing.

I watched his mouth move, but I couldn't pick his voice out

from the others, which I took as an indication of how vocally

well-blended the group was.

When the applause had died and the chorus taken their

bow, they filed off the risers and joined the rest of us. I

picked Joshua up so we could have a group hug.

"That was wonderful, babe!" I said and meant it. "You

were terrific. I'm so proud of you!"

He gave me a warm smile then put his nose about two

inches in front of Joshua's.

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"Could you hear me singing?" he asked, and the boy

nodded vigorously.

"Well, I'm glad," Jonathan said.

We stayed a little longer, until the crowd began to thin.

Eric joined us, and we headed for the gate and the driveway

to catch the bus. Crandall Booth was standing by the gate,

shaking hands with everyone as they left. Off to his left,

looking somewhat bored, was his "nephew" Grant.

Jonathan, Eric and I shook Booth's hand in turn and

thanked him for his hospitality, and he reached down and

tousled Joshua's hair.

"I'm glad you could come," he said.

* * * *

The next couple of weeks went fairly smoothly for me, but

I gathered grew increasingly rocky for the chorus. On

returning home from the first rehearsal after the get-together

at Booth's, Jonathan told me that Jim Bowers, the guy who'd

done such a great job on the "I Am What I Am" solo, hadn't

shown up for rehearsal—apparently the first rehearsal he'd

ever missed. In his absence, Rothenberger decided simply not

to practice that particular number, but a few members—by

odd coincidence, the same guys who were in Grant Jefferson's

little clique—insisted they needed the practice and suggested

that Grant do it.

Jefferson was half an hour late himself, and he had made

no secret of his wanting the solo. Everyone was convinced

that Crandall Booth had been strongly lobbying Rothen-berger

to that end. I wondered if that might have been the topic of

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the animated poolside conversation between Booth and

Rothenberger at the get-together.

At any rate, Rothenberger relented, and they practiced the

number with Grant taking Jim Bowers's part.

"And how was he?" I asked.

Jonathan shrugged. "Well, other than Jim's being a bass

and Grant a high baritone, it was okay. Grant has a nice

voice, but he just ... well, sang it. He didn't have any of the

real feeling that Jim puts into it. It wasn't the same song,

somehow."

* * * *

That Wednesday evening, shortly after Jonathan had left

for class and while Joshua and I were finishing up the dishes,

the phone rang.

"Hi, Dick. Is Jonathan home?"

I recognized the voice.

"Sorry, Eric, he's at class. He should be home around ninethirty.

Do you want him to call you?"

"Uh, no, I won't be home. But can you tell him Jim is in the

hospital? Mercy Memorial, Room seven-thirty-four."

"Jim? Bowers? The guy who does the solo in 'I Am What I

Am?' Jonathan said he'd missed rehearsal last night. What

happened?"

"He got hit by a car—apparently on his way to rehearsal! A

hit-and-run. I saw it on the news this morning, and when

they mentioned he'd been taken to Mercy Memorial, I called

right away."

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I hadn't seen the morning news, and we normally watched

only the national news at night. "I'm really sorry to hear

that," I said. "How's he doing?"

"They wouldn't tell me much at first, but I called again

when I got home from work, and apparently, he's still

unconscious."

"I'll be sure to tell Jonathan," I said. "And thanks for

calling."

* * * *

Jonathan spent a lot of time on the phone over the next

couple of nights, talking with Eric and other friends from the

chorus about Jim Bowers's condition and its ramifications for

the chorus. Normally, one member's absence wouldn't be

such a pivotal factor, but this particular absence involved a

serious and growing rift within the group over Grant

Jefferson's—and, by natural extension, Crandall Booth's—

influence over it.

Rothenberger kept totally out of it and said nothing, but it

was clear he was unhappy with everything that was going on,

and I, for one, certainly couldn't blame him.

Jim had regained consciousness but was still in the

intensive care unit. I was a bit surprised to learn that Crandall

Booth had insisted on being notified and on visiting him as

soon as he regained consciousness, which was very nice of

him. The police had had no luck in tracking down who was

responsible for the hit-and-run. From all reports, Jim had no

recollection of the accident and was unable to give a

description of the car.

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* * * *

The following Tuesday, Jonathan came home from chorus

practice shaking his head.

"I don't know what's going on," he said before we'd even

broken our welcome-home hug.

"Trouble among the angels?" I asked, leading him to the

couch.

He sighed. "Yeah, I'm afraid so. And Grant is definitely

Lucifer."

"So, what happened?" I asked, picking up the remote to

turn off the TV.

"Big brouhaha," he said, leaning back. "Everything was

going along fine until near the end, when Grant asked if we

were going to practice 'I Am What I Am' and Roger said 'Not

tonight.'

"Well, that did it. Grant started complaining about how he

needed the practice. Now, I haven't been with the chorus

very long, but even I know you don't do that. It's the director

who says which songs will be rehearsed and which won't. He

made a concession last week in letting Grant sing it, but he

wasn't about to start letting the members take over. And we

never go through the entire program at any one practice

anyway.

"When Roger told Grant he was sure Jim will be out of the

hospital in plenty of time before the concert, Grant looked like

someone had slapped him. He looked around at a couple of

his cronies, and they all chimed in, insisting that we did need

to practice that particular song. Roger was obviously furious,

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but he merely stared at Grant and repeated, 'Not tonight,'

and went on with the rehearsal."

"I surely don't envy Rothenberger his job," I said.

"Yeah," Jonathan agreed, reaching to take my hand. "But

that's not the best—or make that the worst—part. Sal

Lennox, one of the tenors, told Eric he's been dating a

mechanic at Mister Booth's Porsche dealership, and they had

a date for after rehearsal the night of Jim's accident but the

guy didn't show up. He called later to explain he'd been called

into work to do an emergency repair on a Porsche. Mister

Booth said it was for an out-of-town client who had gotten

into a front-end fender-bender while visiting the city and he

had to have it the next day in order to return home.

"But I caught up with Sal after rehearsal and asked him to

find out what color the car was—he was on his way over to

his boyfriend's, anyway."

I looked at him with mild surprise and admiration. "The

color?"

He turned to me and nodded. "Grant drives a baby-blue

Porsche, and you know what I think? I think Grant was the

one who hit Jim, and I don't think it was an accident!"

"Wow!" I said. "Quinlan and Hardesty, Private

Investigators! I like that!"

He grinned and squeezed my hand. "No, thanks. I'll stick

to my plants and leave the detective business to you. But that

doesn't mean I'm not curious."

"I think I might like to talk to the mechanic. Can you get

his phone number from Sal?"

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"Sure, I can try. You're going to make me a detective

whether I want to be or not, aren't you?"

* * * *

We had just finished a rousing, thoroughly enjoyable game

from the Private Investigator's Guidebook—Lesson #12, Body

Search—and I was drifting off to sleep when the phone rang.

"I'll get it," Jonathan said, hopping out of bed and racing

for the phone.

Though he was speaking softly so as not to disturb Joshua,

I picked up most of the conversation.

"Oh, hi, Sal. No, we're still up ... Yeah ... Ah-ha! Now, that

is interesting! ... Yeah, I will. And thanks!"

He came back into the bedroom grinning like a Cheshire

cat.

"Baby blue," he said.

* * * *

Well, that certainly got my juices flowing. I only wish I

hadn't found out about it just before going to sleep—I was

awake most of the night. Jonathan had forgotten to ask for

the mechanic's phone number, but that could wait.

Could Grant Jefferson had deliberately run down Jim

Bowers? I found it extremely hard to imagine that anybody

would go that far over a song, no matter how good a

showcase it might be. But weighing the little I'd heard about

Grant, and comparing the quick glimpses I'd gotten of him

against other egomaniacs I'd run across in the past, I couldn't

dismiss the idea.

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Might Crandall Booth's being at the hospital as soon as Jim

woke up have been a bit more than an act of kindness? Could

Jim's subsequently being 'unable to remember' the details of

the accident signify some sort of financial incentive for his

silence?

If the baby-blue Porsche was the one Grant drove, having

it go into Booth's own shop for unspecified repairs the same

night as the accident would pretty much guarantee the cops

wouldn't be able to prove anything, even if they knew about

it. Unless an eyewitness to the accident showed up, which

was rather unlikely after more than a week, the accident

looked like a shoo-in for the unsolved files.

I could have called my detective friend Marty Gresham at

police headquarters, but Marty was a homicide detective and

Jim was, fortunately, still very much alive. Still, it rankled to

think that if Grant was responsible he might get off scot-free.

Well, a mind-voice said, you can think about that

tomorrow.

Yeah, thanks, Scarlett, I thought. If I ever get to sleep

tonight.

I must have, because the next thing I remember is light

coming through the blinds and the sound of Joshua shrieking

with laughter in the living room, announcing that he and

Jonathan were having another of their tickling contests, which

Jonathan always won, hands down.

* * * *

On the drive to the office, I decided to hold off on any calls

to the police and do a little freelance checking around on my

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own, including talking to Booth's mechanic, before rushing in

and making premature accusations based on my tendency to

see plots and subterfuges where none exist. If I found out

anything more concrete...

So, the day and the rest of the week settled into routine.

Jonathan wasn't able to reach Sal until Thursday, and when I

tried calling I got a message saying it had was "no longer in

service."

I did have occasion to get a small assignment from Glen

O'Banyon, which gave me the opportunity to stop by his office

and talk with him for a few minutes. I brought up the subject

of the chorus as subtly as possible, telling him we'd gone to

one of Booth's get-togethers and met his nephew Grant.

Glen gave me a raised eyebrow and small smile.

"Ah, yes, his 'nephew.' Crandall has a very large family, it

appears. This is the first one who sings, however. Roger

Rothenberger is not overly happy with ... Grant, is it?"

I nodded.

"Well, I'm sure Grant will be on his way as soon as he has

accomplished whatever it was he set out to accomplish."

Though I didn't say anything, I realized Jefferson's goal

might well be to add his being a soloist with the chorus to his

resume. However, I couldn't resist mentioning the conflict

revolving around the "I Am What I Am" solo and that the guy

who was set to do it had been involved in a near-fatal

accident.

Another raised eyebrow, but no smile this time.

"And you're suggesting...?"

I quickly raised a hand in not-overly-convincing protest.

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"No, no. I'm suggesting nothing. Strange things do

happen. But I'd hate to see the chorus torn apart over all

this." I was tempted to mention the Porsche and Jim Bowers's

faulty memory but figured I'd said enough for the moment.

"Well," Glen said, "I know Crandall does like to throw his

weight around and I know he and Roger have had their runins.

But Roger isn't hesitant in standing up to him. And

despite the chorus's being seriously inconvenienced without

Crandall's financial support, the board won't let him go too

far. I really hadn't been aware that the 'nephew' was being

such a disruption. I'll keep my eyes and ears a little more

open until this all blows over. The last thing any of us wants

is for the chorus to suffer, or to risk losing Roger—he's the

heart and soul of it all."

"Aren't games fun?" I asked.

Glen shrugged and grinned.

I left shortly thereafter, feeling a little better about things.

I knew part of my concern was for Jonathan. I didn't want

anything to stand in the way of his enjoying every minute of

his time with the chorus.

* * * *

Jonathan spoke with Eric and a few other chorus members

several times during the week and over the weekend, and the

usual quietly bubbling fountain of rumors had become a

geyser. Jerry and Tony, one the couples I'd met at Booth's,

were close to breaking up over Grant's intrusion into their

relationship. The only reason this particular piece of news was

raised above the level of high school gossip was that Tony

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and Jerry had been together for a number of years, and I

always truly hate to see couples break up.

But most of the rumors concerned a reported major

confrontation between Roger Rothenberger and Crandall

Booth—it wasn't hard to figure out what it might have been

about. How anybody knew anything about it at all was, as

with all rumors, rather vague, but I'd not be surprised if Grant

had been behind it.

* * * *

Jonathan returned from rehearsal the next Tuesday with a

story right out of a soap opera. Just before they were set to

rehearse the last song of the night, Jerry had stormed into

the room in a rage and made a lunge at Grant, apparently

with the intent to beat the crap out of him. Some of the other

members grabbed him while Grant took off and sped away in

his baby-blue Porsche.

Then Jerry started yelling at Tony and had the poor guy

practically in tears. Roger finally had to order Jerry to get out.

Jonathan wasn't quite sure what it was all about, but it really

rattled everyone, and Roger ended the rehearsal early.

"I'd have been home earlier," Jonathan added, "except

that a lot of us hung around outside talking about it."

Significantly, earlier in the evening they had rehearsed "I

Am What I Am" with Grant singing the solo. But also

significant, Jonathan said, was Roger's all but totally ignoring

Grant, saying nothing at all about his performance, making no

suggestions and no comments. Instead, he had concentrated

on honing the parts of the rest of the chorus.

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This snub was lost on no one, and Jonathan was truly

concerned that the rift was seriously and negatively affecting

the entire chorus. I assumed he was over-reacting, but then,

I wasn't there, nor was I familiar with all the dynamics of the

situation.

I was paying more attention to the goings-on of the chorus

than I normally would have had I been, say, working on a

really interesting case. But because it was so important to

Jonathan, it was important to me.

Life at home went smoothly enough, with fish feedings and

plant waterings and Saturday chores and evening Story

Times. There was also a brief trip to Mercy Memorial on

Saturday afternoon, squeezed in between the dry cleaners

and the grocery store, for Jonathan to visit Jim Bowers.

Bowers was making steady improvement, though he still

could not—or would not—give any details of the accident.

Jonathan told me he didn't believe him—odd for Jonathan—

but had said nothing to Jim.

Growing thunder in the stormclouds hovering over the

chorus were evinced by even more phone calls than on the

previous week. That Jim would quite likely be able to return

before the next concert—and thereby take back the solo

honors on "I Am What I Am"—appeared to be fomenting a

minor insurgency among Grant's supporters, with hints that,

if he were denied the solo, he and his supporters might

boycott the concert. Such a rebellion could have possibly

forced its cancellation, or at the very least sabotaged its

impact.

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All this over one song! I still couldn't help by shake my

head every time I thought about it. This had moved well

beyond the stage of being a tempest in a teapot and was now

passing a typhoon in a soup tureen. I hoped it would all blow

over before the chorus suffered irreparable damage.

* * * *

A week later, as Jonathan was getting ready for rehearsal,

Eric called to ask if he could give him a ride there, as he was

having problems with his car—a huge old white 1968 Dodge

only slightly smaller than a lifeboat from the Queen Mary.

Jonathan immediately agreed, which meant he had to leave

practically right from the dinner table.

When he got home, I asked him, as always, how rehearsal

went.

"Well," he said, "I got a flat tire halfway to Eric's, for

starters, so we were about fifteen minutes late getting there.

But Grant didn't show up at all, and he hadn't called anyone

to say he wouldn't be there. Mister Rothenberger didn't say

anything, but I don't think he was too happy about it."

The reason for Grant's absence was made abundantly clear

by the next morning's local news. The lead story opened with

an shot of a reporter standing amidst police vehicles, an

ambulance and fire trucks, talking about a car explosion

"...shattering windows in neighboring buildings." The camera

then panned across a debris field to a mangled car, most of

which was hidden beneath a bright-yellow tarp.

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"The unidentified driver," the reporter said, "was

pronounced dead at the scene. The cause of the explosion is

unknown."

I managed to recognize from the uncovered rear portion of

the vehicle that the car had been a baby-blue Porsche.

[Back to Table of Contents]

The Angel Singers

by Dorien Grey

CHAPTER THREE

Needless to say, I spent a great deal of time Wednesday

evening while Jonathan was at class answering calls for him

from fellow chorus members. It's human nature to be

shocked and saddened when anyone dies, whether or not we

particularly liked, or even knew, them. The predominant

reaction seemed to be relief—apparently, Jonathan wasn't the

only one beginning to fear for the future of the group.

The Wednesday night late news reported that the cause of

the explosion that had killed Grant Jefferson, 27, was a bomb,

which struck me as falling somewhat short of being a "stop

the presses" revelation. I did find it interesting, however, that

none of the news reports or the newspapers mentioned his

being a nephew of Crandall Booth. Gee, I wonder why?

Booth's name, in fact, was not even mentioned.

I'd made several more futile attempts to call the mechanic

and was considering going over to Central Imports to try to

talk with him, though I realized that might get him into

trouble with Booth if he found out I was asking questions. I

was curious as to who, among those who might have wanted

Jefferson dead, might actually have done it, but figured that's

why the city has a police department.

So, I was quite surprised, on Thursday morning at work, to

receive a call from Donna Winters, Glen O'Banyon's secretary.

"Hi, Donna!" I said. "What can I do for you?" I was quite

sure it had something to do with Grant's death.

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"Mister O'Banyon was wondering if you could come by this

afternoon at one?"

"Of course," I said.

"We'll see you then," she said, pleasantly.

* * * *

A phone call from a potential client—the kind I call a

"fisher," since I knew from word one that he was shopping for

the cheapest possible P.I. he could find—made me late in

leaving the office, and traffic was blocked by a major

intersection accident. I made it to Glen's office at 1,10, the

first time, I think, that I had ever been late for an

appointment with him.

I exchanged pleasantries with the receptionist and took a

seat where I could look down the long hallway towards Glen's

office. A moment later, Donna appeared at the end of the hall

and, seeing me, started toward me.

Odd thing, protocol. I got up and could easily have headed

down the hall to meet her, but sensed it might be violating

some sort of office taboo. The hall and everything along it

was, in a sense, off-limits to everyone but employees. As if to

prove my point, Donna stopped just at the point where the

hall opened onto the lobby. I joined her, and we exchanged

greetings as she led me back down the hall to Glen's office.

Rapping lightly on the huge, highly polished double doors,

she opened one half and stood aside for me to enter first.

"Would you like some coffee?" she asked softly as I passed

her.

"No, thanks," I said. "I'll pass, this time."

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She smiled and closed the door behind me.

Glen sat behind his desk in his shirt sleeves, his suit coat

spread on the back of his chair.

"Sorry I'm late," I said, as we shook hands.

"'No problem," he said. "I appreciate your coming by on

such short notice. I want to get this taken care of right

away."

Though I had a good idea of what he was talking about, I

couldn't be sure and decided to wait for him to tell me. He

gestured me to a seat.

"We want you to look into Grant Jefferson's death," he said

simply.

We?

"Aren't the police doing that?" I asked.

"Of course," he said, "but this goes a little beyond normal

police procedures. There are quite a few people involved on

quite a few levels and we—I—want to keep the whole matter

as contained as possible."

"'We' being...?"

He nodded. "The chorus board of directors. We met last

night to discuss the possible ramifications of Grant's death on

the organization. Crandall is opposed to the idea of bringing a

private investigator in, but since the police have already

interviewed him and he will obviously be a focal point of their

investigation, the other members and I overruled him."

"Was he able to tell them anything?"

"He answered their specific questions, but he's too astute

to go beyond or elaborate on his responses. They

undoubtedly will want to talk with him again." He leaned

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forward in his chair and looked me squarely in the eye. "This

is not to go beyond this room, but I'm seriously concerned

not so much that the investigation's focus will quite likely be

on Crandall as that it may have some justification."

"How so?"

"I suspect there may have been some serious problems

regarding his relationship with Grant Jefferson."

"I got the impression from when we talked last that you

didn't know Jefferson all that well."

He nodded. "You're right, I didn't. But Crandall never

wanders far from type."

"Any specifics?"

"Not really. Mostly impressions. I've known Crandall for

years. I would categorize him more as a close acquaintance

than a friend. He comes from wealth and has made several

fortunes on his own, and he's always operated on the not

totally unjustified principle that money is power.

"Unfortunately, he occasionally carries this principle over

into his personal life. Grant Jefferson was not the first young

man he has taken under his wing. Usually, they drop out of

his life as quickly as they enter it. I may be a bit jaded, but

I've often found that what can be bought can be paid to go

away.

"Crandall, as I've said, loves to be in control, and as far as

I can tell it has always been he who ended the liaisons. But I

get the impression Jefferson had an agenda of his own,

though I have no idea of what it might have been.

"I would truly hate to think Crandall actually did have

anything to do with Grant's death, if for no other reason than

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that I can't imagine his blowing up one of his own cars—and

especially a car as expensive as a Porsche.

"I'm telling you all this to encourage you to consider all

options—not that I had any doubt that you would.

"My main concern, other than to see Jefferson's killer

brought to justice, is to keep the chorus as far out of this

mess as possible. It's an asset the gay community can't

afford to have jeopardized."

"I understand and agree."

"So," he said, sitting back in his chair, "you'll take it on?"

"Sure," I said, actually relieved to have another real case

to sink my teeth into. "I assume I'll have Booth's full

cooperation?"

He raised an eyebrow and gave a slight shrug. "I certainly

hope so. If he was not responsible for Jefferson's death, he

knows it's in his own best interests in the long run, and if

there is one thing Crandall is not, it's stupid." He grinned,

then added, "I've also spoken with Roger, telling him to

expect to hear from you."

Glancing at his watch, he then said, "Ah, time to get back

to court," and got quickly to his feet, picking his suit coat off

the back with both hands and swinging it over his shoulders

to put it on in one smooth motion that reminded me of a

matador swooping his cape at a charging bull.

I quickly rose as well.

"You can mail me the contract or drop it off," he said as we

walked to the door.

We'd worked together so often that contracts were a mere

formality, but one understood to also be a legal necessity.

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We left the office together and rode the elevator to the

parking garage, where we shook hands and agreed to talk

soon, then went our separate ways.

* * * *

I made a mental list, on my way back to the office, of the

people I wanted to talk to and wrote it down the minute I got

to my desk. The mechanic, Roger Rothenberger and Eric

Speers were at the top ... and Jonathan, of course. He hadn't

been with the chorus all that long, but he'd joined only shortly

after Grant Jefferson had. and he didn't miss much. He was

also quite good at reading people. I'd hold off on Crandall

Booth until I'd had a chance to talk to the other three. When I

did see him, I wanted to have as much knowledge of what,

exactly, was going on within the chorus as possible.

That evening at dinner I suggested to Jonathan that we

have Eric over again and told him my purpose. Joshua gave

me a sharp look at the mention of the name Eric but then

went back to playing with his mashed potatoes, which he

seemed to enjoy pushing into a different shape after every

bite.

Later, while Jonathan studied for his horticulture class and

Joshua built an odd-looking structure out of his Lincoln Logs, I

asked Jonathan for Sal Lennox's number and called.

"Hello?"

"Sal?"

"Yeah?"

"Sal, this is Dick Hardesty, Jonathan Quinlan's other half. I

tried to get in touch with that mechanic friend of yours, but—"

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"Paul, you mean? Sorry, I can't help you. I haven't talked

to him since Grant was killed. Last time I tried him the line

was still open. He just didn't answer, and he hasn't called me.

I think I get the message."

Now, that was an interesting bit of news.

I asked if he might have Paul's address and he gave it to

me. I wrote it down and put it in my billfold. I thanked him

for his time, wished him well and hung up.

* * * *

It wasn't until after Joshua was safely story-timed and

asleep that I had a chance to talk to Jonathan to find out if

there were anything he might not have already told me about

the chorus.

"I thought I told you everything that was going on," he

said.

"Well, yeah, you have, but you haven't really said too

much about what you think about it all, or about the guys.

Especially anything that relates to Grant Jefferson."

He shrugged. "Ah, yeah. Well, I really like most of the

guys, even those who sided with Grant. Grant could be really

kind of sweet, if he wanted to be—like, if he wanted

something. The guys in his inner circle tended to come and

go. Somebody would be his best buddy for a while then the

next week Grant would totally ignore him.

"Most of what I know is secondhand, since I have no idea

how he was between rehearsals or if he hung around with

anybody in particular when we weren't rehearsing. I'm pretty

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sure he was having sex with some of the guys, and he was

very good with come-ons."

"Speaking from personal experience?" I asked with a grin.

He returned the grin. "I don't kiss and tell," he said, and I

reached over and grabbed his leg in a vice grip that made him

jerk. "Okay!" he protested. "Okay! No kissing, but he did

come on to me once or twice. But my strength is the strength

of ten because my heart is pure."

I rolled my eyes at the ceiling and released my grip.

"So, Mister Pureheart," I said, "anybody you haven't mentioned

have a particular grudge against him?"

He shook his head. "He wouldn't win many popularity

contests, but I'm pretty sure there were a couple of the guys'

partners who'd be mad enough, like Jerry was, to at least try

to beat him up."

"Yeah, well, I can see a lot of guys being pissed at him,

but enough to kill him?"

"Hell hath no fury like a lover scorned," he intoned.

I stared at him. "My, we're a little fount of aphorisms

tonight, aren't we?"

"Aren't aphorisms those little green bugs that get on my

pepper plants?" he asked, then quickly added,, "Oh, no, those

are aphids."

I could see we weren't going to get much further into this

particular conversation, so suggested we go to bed.

"We can play a game of 'The Aphid and the Pepper Plant,'"

I said. "I get to be the aphid."

He grinned, getting up from the couch.

"Deal," he said.

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* * * *

Jonathan had given me Roger Rothenberger's home phone

number and told me that, as far as he knew, what with

directing the chorus and the M.C.C.'s choir, Roger didn't have

a regular day job.

When I got to the office Friday morning I went through my

usual morning coffee/newspaper/crossword puzzle ritual

before taking out the slip of paper with Rothenberger's

number and dialing. The phone was picked up after the

second ring.

"Rothenberger here."

"Mister Rothenberger, this is Dick Hardesty. We met at

Crandall Booth's last get-together. Glen O'Banyon tells me

he's spoken to you about me."

"Ah, yes, Mister Hardesty—may I call you Dick? A certain

degree of formality is appropriate in certain situations, but I

don't think this is one of them."

I laughed. "I agree."

"Good, and please call me Roger. I assume you have

agreed to look into Grant's death?"

"Yes, and I was wondering when we might get together to

discuss it."

"I'm at your disposal," he said. "I've already been

interviewed by the police."

"I'd have assumed so," I said. "But my job isn't to

duplicate what the police are doing so much as to supplement

it, to see if I can find things they might have missed."

"Well, I wish you luck," he said.

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"Would you have any time today?"

"I have a meeting at the M.C.C. at three," he said, "but

I'm free until then. Would one o'clock be all right?"

"One is fine."

He gave me his address, which I jotted down on the same

piece of paper with his phone number. We exchanged a few

more words then hung up.

About eleven, I called down to the diner off the lobby of

my building for a bowl of chili and a grilled cheese sandwich,

saying I'd be down in ten minutes to pick it up. I never went

into that diner without expecting to see Eudora and Evolla,

the identical twin sister waitresses who had finally retired a

couple of years earlier after having worked there since Taft

was in office. I still took delight in remembering deliberately

ordering soup or chili just to hear them belt out to the cook

"BOW-EL."

I missed them.

* * * *

Rothenberger lived on the ninth floor of an older

apartment complex. His apartment was quite small, and I'm

sure quite comfortable for him, though I was inexplicably

reminded of Poe's "The Raven." No heavy drapes, but the

furniture tended toward the heavy side—overstuffed chairs

and couch, solid dark wood end tables and bookcase, brass

lamps with dark shades—all of which were a tad too large for

the room. The walls were lined with personal photos of

various musical groups, most of them including him, and a

few nice pieces of individually lit framed art.

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His building was taller than its neighbors and halfway up a

hill, with the result that he had a nice view of the city.

He offered me a seat and asked if I'd like a cup of coffee,

which I declined with thanks as I sat down in one of the large,

surprisingly comfortable armchairs.

"So," he said, taking the other armchair, "what is the

procedure?"

I wasn't quite sure what he meant, but said, "Well, let's

start with what the police asked you and what you told

them."

Resting his elbows on the arms of his chair, he leaned

forward, hands cupped, fingertips touching to form what I

always call 'the ministerial arch.'

"I suppose their questions were routine," he began. "Did I

have any idea who might have killed him or why. Did he have

any enemies among the chorus members. Had he given any

indication that something was wrong. Did he seem nervous or

worried? That sort of thing.

"I told them I had no idea as to who his killer might be,

that within the chorus bickering, arguments and rivalries are

a way of life. I did not think it necessary to go too deeply into

that issue since, while I know a number of the members

disliked Grant intensely, there was no point in detailing every

grievance against him. And I simply cannot believe that any

of them could have led to murder. If I did I certainly would

not have hesitated to say so, but I could see no value in

pointing fingers left and right. I have an obligation to protect

the chorus as much as I can."

"I understand," I said. "And what did you think of him?"

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He raised an eyebrow and sat back in his chair, his hands

grasping the front of the arms. "The truth? I thought he was

an arrogant opportunist who would not hesitate to set his own

mother on fire if he needed to warm his hands."

"That must have been awkward for you, him being

Crandall Booth's nephew and all," I said, to get his reaction.

He gave a quick bark of laughter. "Oh, my, Dick! You are a

card. I can see why Jonathan is so enamored of you. Crandall

wasn't fooling anybody, and I have no idea why he even felt it

necessary to try. But he has enough money, and the power to

go with it, that if he said the moon was made of green cheese

no one would contradict him."

"I gather you and he are not the best of friends."

He looked at me with a wry smile. "I think that would be a

fair, if understated, assessment."

"Any particular reason for the lack of rapport?"

"Crandall, as you know, is the chorus's chief financial

backer—not, I am sure, out of his love of music. He is the

type of man who would buy an original copy of a work by

Mozart just to say he had it, even though he wouldn't

recognize it if you played it for him. He uses his money as a

means to control.

"When I was approached by the Chicago Gay Men's

Chorus, which is directed by a friend of mine, to bring our

group to Chicago for a joint concert, I took the idea to the

board, and immediately, Crandall offered to finance the trip."

"Wow," I said, "that was certainly generous of him. I

remember how excited Jonathan was when he found out

about it."

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"Indeed, it was, and regardless of his motives, I truly am

grateful for everything he has done for the chorus. I believe

he was instrumental in our getting Atheneum Hall for the

concert—the editor of the Journal is a friend of his, and he

has even arranged to have the concert covered by the paper's

entertainment editor. I only wish his motives were more

altruistic."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning that I'm sure he intended the event to be a

showcase for Grant. He very unsubtly suggested, when he

mentioned that the Journal would be covering the concert,

that it would be a good idea to give Grant a solo. I pointed

out to him that this is, after all, a chorus, not a showcase for

any one singer, and that the only number that has any

significant solo component is 'I Am What I Am,' that I felt it

was best sung by a bass and that Jim Bowers had the part.

"That might have silenced him, but it certainly didn't

silence Grant—especially after Jim's accident. I might have

had to give in to him despite my personal antipathy for Grant,

who admittedly had a very good voice. But his death ruled

that out, and I'm confident Jim will be well enough by the

time of the concert to be able to perform."

I found it hard to imagine that he couldn't see the fourlane

highway between Point A and Point B and realize, as

Jonathan had suggested, that Grant was very probably

responsible for Jim's accident.

"I've been curious as to exactly what the relationship was

between Grant and Crandall ... Well, let me rephrase that,

since I think any relatively intelligent primate could figure

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that out easily enough. What I mean was, how they got along

out of bed."

"I really don't think it's my place to say."

"I disagree," I said. "It's important that I find out as much

as I possibly can about the people involved. Every bit of

information is like a piece of a jigsaw puzzle..." I realized as I

said it how often I used that analogy, but true is true. "Some

of the pieces may not fit, but a lot of them very well might,

and one of them may be the key to the whole mystery."

Rothenberger sighed. "I'd known Crandall as a member of

the Chorus's board and been a guest at his home many times

as well as seeing him regularly at all the chorus functions.

Over the space of the five years since the chorus was formed,

he has had a number of young men in his company—one

supposed son of a college friend staying with him while he

attended school, another the supposed son of an East Coast

business associate and, lately, his dear nephew Grant. I really

don't know why he bothers with this charade, but he does.

"Anyway, I sensed in Grant a harder edge than most of his

predecessors, and I was sure Crandall would not be able to

dismiss him quite so easily as he had the others.

"Grant was also the first of Crandall's charges to have an

interest in singing, and when Crandall informed me he wanted

Grant to be in the chorus—it was not put in the form of a

request—I simply told him that Grant would have to audition

like anyone else. Crandall was obviously less than pleased,

but wisely chose not to make an issue of it. I did agree to

have Grant audition here rather than before a regular

rehearsal as is the normal procedure.

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"When Grant arrived, I must say I was favorably

impressed. He could be quite charming when it suited his

purposes, and I was a bit surprised to find that he could

actually sing! A very pleasant high baritone, which meant he

could sing either tenor or baritone parts. So, while we really

didn't need either another baritone or another tenor at the

moment, given Crandall's dark cloud on the chorus's horizon I

didn't want to alienate him. Besides, it never hurts to have a

few more singers than the chorus really needs—spares, as it

were.

"And sure enough, two weeks later one of our tenors had a

job transfer out of state. I was going to put Grant in the tenor

two section, but then Jonathan came along and we ended up

with both."

He paused, as if to give me a chance to say something,

but I passed and he continued.

"Crandall never misses an opportunity to try to under-mine

my authority. His insistence on Grant's accompanying him on

his frequent weekend gambling jaunts to Las Vegas, despite

knowing full well the importance I place on Saturday sectional

rehearsals, was merely another way of goading me.

"And it didn't take long after he joined before Grant began

to show his own true colors—grandstanding, playing one

member off against another, building his own little clique,

making very unsubtle passes before, after and sometimes

during rehearsals. He especially seemed to target members

he knew had partners. If he didn't like a song, he would

openly complain, or simply stand there and not sing it. He

seemed to think that being 'related' to Crandall gave him

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special privileges, and when I made it clear to him that it did

not, I started getting phone calls from Crandall.

"One of the more interesting involved the ridiculous

accusation that I was being vindictive against Grant because

he had rebuffed me after I'd made several passes at him.

Whether that's what Grant had told him or he was making it

up, I have no way of knowing. I find it difficult to imagine

Crandall didn't know full well what Grant was up to."

He shook his head, sighed and looked at me with a small

smile. "Do I strike you as the kind of man who would be so

stupid as to make passes at members of my own chorus?" He

didn't wait for a reply before saying, "And meanwhile, Grant's

little games were creating real hostility among some of the

other members. While any group has its share of such

problems, they had never approached this degree of

disruption before.

"And for it to all happen now, while we're preparing for

probably the most important concert we've ever given, it goes

far beyond inconvenient. It's disruptive, and the chorus

inevitably suffers."

"So," I said when he came to another pause, "if you had to

pick anyone from the chorus who might have harbored a

particularly strong grudge against Grant, who do you think it

might be?"

He thought a minute, then said, "I'm really not

comfortable even remotely implicating anyone in something

this serious."

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"We're talking purely hypothetically here," I said. "What

name or names popped into your head when I asked the

question?"

He gave me a small smile, "Other than my own?" he

asked.

I grinned. "Please."

"It's really hard to say what might be going on in someone

else's head, but going only on actions, the most obvious

would be Jerry Granville, Tony Breen's former partner. I

understand he's noted for having a bad temper, and I really

was quite concerned when he showed up at rehearsal. While

part of me would have rather enjoyed seeing someone beat

Grant senseless, I simply could not have allowed that to

happen on my watch.

"Fortunately, Eric and some others stepped in to prevent a

fight and I had to ask Jerry to leave. We certainly neither

wanted nor needed a rather nasty scene."

"Understood," I said. "Anyone else that you can think of?"

He shook his head. "Not really. As I say, one never knows

what someone else is thinking. There was one other incident,

however, that disturbed me.

"I mentioned that Grant took pleasure in playing little

games and sometimes they could verge on the cruel. One of

our members, Barry Legget—like several other members, he

also sings with the M.C.C. choir—is almost painfully shy when

he is not singing. Maybe because of that, he's one of the

members in whom I took special interest and have tried to

help along. He had an almost unbelievably painful childhood

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spent in foster care after his parents abandoned him. He even

spent some time in a juvenile correctional facility.

"He has been with us about two years now and has been

making real progress. I think he's come to look on his fellow

singers almost as the family he never had. And then along

came Grant, who decided it would be fun to play cat-andmouse

with Barry, teasing him, enticing him, leading him on.

I wouldn't have known anything about it if it had not been for

Eric, in whom Barry confided.

"It seems that Grant had been leading Barry on for nearly

a month. Eric had noticed it, as had several of the other

members. Then Grant asked him on a date. Barry was

ecstatic but said nothing to anyone, and it's good that he

didn't because Grant, not surprisingly, never showed up.

"He then approached Barry with some sort of excuse as to

why he hadn't called to cancel and proceeded to set up

another date. For the second time, he never showed up and

he never called.

"At the next rehearsal, one of the members of Grant's little

clique teased him about it, which means that Grant had to

have shared his little joke with his inner circle and probably

had a good laugh over it. Eric knew something was wrong and

asked Barry about it. It was only then that Barry told him.

And when Eric told me, I was furious. It was only with a good

deal of effort that Eric and I were able to convince Barry not

to quit the chorus."

"Eric seems like a really nice guy and really committed to

the chorus," I observed.

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Rothenberger shook his head slowly. "You have no idea. I

truly consider Eric to be the cornerstone of the entire

organization. I've known him since he was a child, and it in

fact was he who was instrumental in encouraging me to form

the group. I really think it is almost as much a part of his life

as it is of mine. I think he, like Barry, sees the chorus as his

surrogate family. And Eric keeps me posted on what's going

on with the members and things of which I might not

otherwise be aware."

"When was this incident with Barry?" I asked.

"A week or two before Grant was killed, actually." He

suddenly looked startled and said, "But that is purely

coincidence, I'm sure. Barry is incapable of doing such a

thing!"

"I'm sure you're right," I said, not at all sure, "but I was

wondering if I could get the phone numbers and addresses of

everyone in the chorus, in case I might need to contact any of

them for any reason."

"Of course," he said.

* * * *

On my way back to the office I remembered that Jonathan

had mentioned Barry a couple of times as one of the chorus

members he really liked and I had probably met him at

Booth's get-together, though I couldn't remember. Jonathan

hadn't said anything about the incident between Barry and

Grant, though, and I assumed he didn't know about it.

One of the many things I love about Jonathan is his

willingness to accept people and to always give them the

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benefit of the doubt. Nevertheless, I'm sure if he'd known of

Grant's cruelty toward Barry he would have mentioned it.

I made a note to check with both Barry and with Eric, who

I was pretty sure knew everything that was going on in the

chorus, to get their takes on the incident and to see how

Barry had really felt about it.

But first, while I was out, I thought I'd swing by the

address Sal had given me for the mechanic, Paul. I cursed

myself for not having asked for his last name.

A sign stuck in the lawn outside the older four-story brick

structure said "Furnished Apartment for Rent." I walked up to

the entrance and into the small foyer, checking the names on

the buzzer plate—most of the slots were empty, but none of

the ones that were there gave a first name Paul, or even the

initial P. Well, since I was there, I thought I'd take a chance

and I rang the one marked Manager.

About fifteen seconds later, looking through the glasspaneled

inner door, I saw the first door on the right open, and

a very thin man in a blue work shirt several times too large

for him came to the door and opened it.

"Can I help you?" he asked pleasantly.

"I'm looking for one of your tenants," I said, "and didn't

see him listed. His first name is Paul."

"Jellen. Yeah. He's gone."

"I figured he was probably at work, but thought I'd—"

He interrupted me. "No, he's gone. As in moved."

That caught me by surprise. "When was this?"

"A week, maybe two. Told me one night he was leaving

and the next day he was gone."

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"What about his furniture?" I asked. "His things?"

"All our apartments are furnished," he said. "He didn't

have all that much to take. Left some food in the refrigerator

and some stuff in the kitchen cupboards, but that's it."

"Did he say where he was going?" I asked.

"Tulsa. Said he got a job there."

Tulsa? Why in the world would anyone move to Tulsa? a

mind voice asked.

I chose to ignore it. "Any forwarding address?"

He shook his head. "Said for me to hold his mail and he'd

send me his new address when he got settled. I haven't

heard from him since."

"Well, thanks for your time," I said and, thoroughly

puzzled, left.

I needed to have a talk with Crandall Booth.

[Back to Table of Contents]

The Angel Singers

by Dorien Grey

CHAPTER FOUR

Though Booth owned several dealerships in the area, I

knew he operated mainly out of Central Imports, so as soon

as I got to the office, I called and was told Mister Booth was

out of town for a dealer's conference and would be back the

following Monday. I wondered idly if the conference might be

in Tulsa.

At dinner that night, I asked Jonathan about Barry.

"I like him," he said, which I'd already known. "He's really

quiet, and I think he's had a pretty rough life. He never talks

about it, but I can tell and it's a real shame. And I think Grant

did something really mean to him, though Barry never said

anything. You met Barry at Mister Booth's, though you

probably don't remember with all those people. Anyway, I

think it would be nice if we were to have him over for dinner

sometime."

"Sure," I said. "I have a couple of questions I'd like to ask

him."

He gave me his one-eyebrow-up, one-eyebrow-down semiscowl.

"I said we should ask him over for dinner, not to an

interrogation. I'm sure he'd like to come over—I don't think

he has all that many friends—but I don't want you dragging

out the rubber hose and the brass knuckles the minute he

walks in the door."

I shook my head solemnly. "Oh, ye of little faith," I said.

"What are brass knuckles?" Joshua asked.

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"They're something I'm occasionally tempted to use on

Uncle Dick," Jonathan answered sweetly. I ignored him, and

Joshua didn't pursue it.

Despite Jonathan's probably accurate assessment of my

motives, I said, "I know it's short notice, but why don't you

give Barry a call and see if he'd like to come over tomorrow

night?"

"You're right." He looked mildly suspicious. "It is short

notice. What am I supposed to tell him?"

"You don't have to tell him anything. Just say you'd been

thinking of having him over and that we were talking about

having pizza tomorrow night..."

"We were?" The eyebrow raised again.

"Hey, work with me here," I said. "It's a reason. If he

can't, he can't, but..."

"Can we still have pizza?" Joshua chimed in.

"Well, I suppose," Jonathan said reluctantly. "But I don't

know that I've got his number."

"I do," I said. "Roger gave me the numbers of everyone in

the chorus. I'll get it for you right after we finish dinner. And

if he can't come tomorrow, you can set up another night. But

I really do want to talk to him as soon as possible."

As Joshua and I were doing the dishes, Jonathan called

Barry and they talked quietly for several minutes. I heard him

say "Great! We'll see you then."

Coming into the kitchen, he said, "All set. Tomorrow night

at seven. He asked if he could bring anything and I told him

no."

"Good," I said. "Thanks."

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While Joshua and I finished cleaning up and Jonathan

studied for class, my mind slipped further into my on-a-case

mode. I mentally checked Barry off my to-contact list. Next

was Eric.

I knew he worked a nine-to-five and that he often worked

on Saturdays as well. Since Barry would be over Saturday

night, that left Sunday or a weeknight.

Returning to the living room, where Joshua was already

busy working on several different play projects at once, I

said, "I was thinking. Since we're having Barry over

tomorrow, would it be too much to try to get together with

Eric on Sunday, maybe?"

Jonathan looked up quizzically. "Sunday?"

"Yeah. Does Eric go to church, do you know?"

"No, he's a heathen, like you." He smiled when he said it.

"What's a heathen?" Joshua had to ask.

"Somebody who doesn't go to church on Sunday," I said.

"Oh," he replied and went back to playing.

"So, what were you thinking?" Jonathan asked.

"Well, maybe I could ask him to come over to talk about

Grant while you and Joshua are at church, and then we could

all go out for brunch."

Pursing his lips, he looked at me for a minute before

saying, "Well, I don't know. You think I can trust the two of

you alone together? He wants your bod."

"Hey, look, I'm the jealous-possessive one in the family.

You don't have a thing to worry about. Though it's nice to be

wanted."

He grinned. "What am I, chopped liver?"

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I leaned over to kiss him, then went to the phone and

made the call.

* * * *

I recognized Barry Legget the moment he showed up at

the door Saturday evening. I had met him at Booth's and now

remembered that I'd found him quite attractive. Five-nine,

curly hair, cute in a non-stereotypical way—in my single days,

he'd be what I'd definitely consider my type.

He was carrying a thick, flat gift-wrapped package that

immediately caught Joshua's eye.

After the re-introductions, Barry handed the package to

him.

"I understand you like books," he said, and Joshua nodded

eagerly, at the same time tearing the wrapping off. "I hope

you don't already have this one."

It was an illustrated copy of Hans Christian Anderson's

fairy tales, and Joshua's face reflected his clearly having

made a spot for Barry on his favorite-people list.

"Thank you!" he said without being prompted for a change,

thanks echoed by both Jonathan and me, and immediately

plopped down on the floor to begin turning the pages.

I got a beer (his choice) for Barry and myself and Cokes

for Jonathan and Joshua while Jonathan called for the pizza.

Barry was, as Jonathan had indicated, almost painfully shy

at first, talking more easily with him than with me, but by the

time the pizza had arrived and I'd convinced him to have

another beer, he'd relaxed a bit.

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He and Jonathan talked a lot about what was going on with

the chorus and their excitement about the upcoming concert

and that they'd be performing at Atheneum Hall. I listened

very carefully to everything he said, hoping to pick up any bit

of pertinent information. But there were only peripheral

references to Grant, until I decided to risk bringing the bull

into the china shop.

Checking first to make sure Joshua was totally absorbed in

his new book—it was, as I said, a thick one and had many

pictures—I said, "What did you think of Grant's murder?"

He looked as though someone had jabbed a pin into his

leg.

"It was ... terrible," he said.

I realized I was walking something of a tightrope here,

since I didn't want to give him the idea Jonathan had been

talking about him behind his back, so I decided to go the

professional route.

"I don't know if Jonathan told you," I explained, "that I've

been hired by the chorus's board of directors to look into

Grant's death, so I hope you don't mind my asking you about

him. I really need to know everything I can about him so I

can know what direction to go in."

"Not mine," Barry said. The way he said it, he reminded

me of a startled baby rabbit, and I felt sorry for him.

I laughed ... and lied.

"No, of course not. But I understand a lot of the members

had good reason not to like him. That doesn't mean they

killed him. But every bit of information I can get on him will

help."

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The ringing of the doorbell announced the arrival of the

pizza, and the next half-hour was devoted to eating. Because

of Joshua's ambivalent presence—Jonathan's not letting him

bring his new book to the table weighed against the fact he

had never met a pizza he didn't like—the conversation

remained general, mostly in the form of Barry's asking

questions of both me and Jonathan. I was quite sure he asked

them largely to avoid risking our asking too many of our own.

Realizing that, I tried not to press him.

But I at least wanted to take my earlier question another

step.

"So, what did you think of Grant?"

Barry carefully took a bite of pizza and washed it down

with a swig of his beer before answering.

"I didn't like him very much," he admitted. "He was rude

and mean-spirited and thoughtless of how he treated others.

He thought that, because he was beautiful and rich, he could

do whatever he wanted."

I found it rather telling that he thought of Grant as

"beautiful," and by his reference to Grant's alleged wealth

gathered he had bought into the story of Grant's being

Crandall Booth's nephew.

"Did you ever have any personal problems with him?" I

persisted, hastily adding, "Just as an example of how he

treated people."

He stared at the pizza box, carefully not making eye

contact.

"He liked to lead people on," he said, without being

specific. There was no need to be—I knew what he was

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referring to. "He thought it was fun, him hurting people." His

eyes darted to mine, and he hastened to add, "...like I know

he did with a couple of the guys. People shouldn't be allowed

to do things like that."

And somebody'd made sure he wouldn't do it to anyone

else, I thought.

I was very curious about Rothenberger's comment that

Barry had spent some time in a juvenile detention facility,

and I wanted to know why. Short of asking him directly—and

since we'd invited him over ostensibly as a dinner guest, I

thought it would be pretty crass of me to bring it up at the

moment—I knew I'd have a hard time finding out what had

sent him there. Juvenile records were sealed, and not

available to private investigators or anyone else.

Well, I'd find a way.

* * * *

The door buzzer announced Eric's arrival Sunday morning

just as Jonathan and Joshua were on their way down the

stairs. Since I hadn't yet closed the door, I left it open waiting

for him. I heard him and Jonathan exchange greetings as

they passed each other. I even heard Joshua say hi, which I

hoped boded well for a thaw in his one-sided Cold War with

Eric.

Taking his jacket as he came in, I put it in our bedroom

and, returning to the living room, offered him some coffee,

which he accepted. He followed me into the kitchen and sat

down at the table as I poured.

"You want to go back into the living room?" I asked.

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"Nah," he said. "Kitchen's fine."

I pulled out a chair and joined him.

"So, what do you want to know?" he asked. I'd told him

about having been hired to look into Grant's murder when I

called Friday to invite him to brunch.

The need for introductory small talk thus eliminated, I

plunged right in.

"Everything you can tell me about how Grant got along

with the rest of the chorus. Especially about anyone you think

might conceivably have wanted to see him dead."

He took a sip of his coffee before replying. "Let's see," he

said, putting his cup on the table and leaning back in his

chair. "Fifty members, plus quite a few members' partners

minus the four or five guys—not always the same ones—in his

little circle at any given time ... I'd say probably two dozen or

more."

"And what did you think of him? Any particular problems

with him?"

He shook his head. "Not directly, no. I think he sensed it

wouldn't be in his best interests to fuck with me. But that

didn't stop me from hating his guts for what he was doing to

the chorus."

"And what was that?" I asked.

"Well, you know about Tony and Jerry."

I nodded.

"Crap like that," he said. "And there was a lot of it. I saw

the Tony and Jerry one coming a mile away," he said, "and I

tried to warn Tony, but ... And the minute Jerry walked out

on him, Grant lost all interest in Tony. What a shit!"

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"He sounds like a real prince," I said.

My attempt at levity went right over his head.

"Oh, he was," he said, shaking his head as he picked up

his coffee. "I don't know what he thought he was

accomplishing by doing whatever he could to undermine the

chorus's morale, and it was starting to affect our singing.

Maybe he thought the worse everybody else sounded, the

better he did. I know Roger was on to him, but I really don't

think there was much he could do about it, given Crandall's

being the eight-hundred-pound gorilla. And Grant didn't give

a damn about the chorus or anybody's singing but his own."

"He almost never showed up for a sectional," he went on.

"Either he was in Las Vegas with Crandall, or he just didn't

bother to show. And the interesting thing was that, whenever

he didn't show up for a weeknight sectional, one of the other

guys he'd been chasing didn't show up, either. Not too hard

to figure out what Grant was more interested in practicing."

I mused on the fact that, though these sectionals were not

mandatory, Jonathan had never missed a single one. They

were usually held on Saturday afternoons and, therefore,

made our already tight-scheduled Saturdays even more so.

"But no other major incidents, other than the Tony and

Jerry thing?" I asked.

"No, nothing really major. But Grant was damned lucky

Jerry didn't get to him that night."

"You think there would have been a real fight?"

"I don't think it would have qualified as a fight as much as

a beating. Not to paint Jerry in a bad light, but I know he has

a really short fuse and a mean temper. I'm pretty sure he hit

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Tony a couple times while they were together, though Tony

would never say so. I always had the impression I sure

wouldn't want to mess with him."

I duly filed that bit of information away in my mental

check-on file.

We drank our coffee in silence for a minute, then I said,

"So, tell me—Jerry's temper aside, do you think Grant might

have gotten anyone else from the chorus angry enough to kill

him?"

He looked at me, then shrugged. "I'd hope not," he said,

"I'm sure a lot of the guys he stepped on thought about it,

but if everybody killed everyone they ever thought of killing,

there wouldn't be many people left in the world. But if Grant

was as big a shit in his life outside the chorus as he was in it,

I'd say the field was wide open."

I'd thought the same thing, but didn't want to. Working

with a pool of at least fifty potential suspects was more than

enough. Still, I'd have a better idea when I had a chance to

talk with Crandall Booth.

* * * *

After we finished our coffee, we moved into the living room

to await Jonathan's and Joshua's return from church. As we

left the kitchen, Eric excused himself to go to the bathroom,

and I went over and sat on the couch. I was a little surprised

that, when he came out of the bathroom, rather than taking

one of the chairs across from me, he sat down directly beside

me on the couch. I had a quick mental flash of Jonathan's

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caution that Eric was "out to get me" then as quickly

dismissed it.

I'd tried, in the course of talking with him, to find out a

little more about his background. He'd mentioned when he'd

come over the first time that he'd been orphaned at fourteen,

and I now learned he'd then gone to live with his maternal

grandmother until she died when he was a freshman in

college. He'd been totally on his own since then. He'd had one

relationship shortly after he got out of college, but it had

ended badly; and he claimed he'd determined not to have

another—a position I suspected would go quickly out the

window if the right guy appeared. I gathered he had the usual

number of friends, though he didn't mention any one as being

especially close. His main focus in life seemed to be the

chorus.

"I understand you and Roger go back a long way," I said,

and he nodded.

"Since I was a kid," he said, but didn't elaborate.

"He seems to think you're a cornerstone of the chorus," I

added, hoping to elicit a bit more information on their

relationship.

He smiled. "That's nice of him to say. I do what I can."

"Well, knowing how much Jonathan enjoys being in the

chorus, I think I can understand how you must feel about it. I

envy you both for having something outside your workday

lives you can relate so strongly to."

I got the distinct impression that I was being very subtly

stonewalled, though I hadn't a clue as to why.

* * * *

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by Dorien Grey

The two J's returned shortly after noon, effectively ending

my conversation with Eric. I think I'd expected to get more

out of him than I did, but he had given me some things to

think about, and whether intentionally or not, it raised a

bunch of questions I wanted to take up with Booth. How

much did he know about Grant's little games with other

chorus members, and what did he think of them? Might there

have been tension between them? Might Booth be the jealous

type? Without really knowing either of them, I suspected that

there had to have been some pretty rough waters in that

relationship.

I definitely wanted to talk to Booth next. My problem there

was, how forthcoming could I expect him to be?

We waited only long enough for Joshua to make a

bathroom stop and a Jonathan-supervised wash-up—that kid

could find a way to get dirty if he were tied to a chair—before

heading off for brunch. We never went to totally gay

restaurants when Joshua was with us, not because we

couldn't but because we realized some guys might feel

uncomfortable having a five-year-old in close proximity in

what was primarily an adult social setting. Instead, we opted

for the Cove, a family-type restaurant whose clientele was

almost totally gay but, because liquor wasn't served, covered

a much wider spectrum, including a lot of gay teens.

It was a pleasant brunch, and Joshua, if not exactly

warming to Eric, at least showed signs of a spring thaw.

* * * *

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First thing Monday, after my morning ritual, I dialed

Central Imports and asked to speak to Mister Booth. After

being asked my name, there was a pause so long I was

beginning to think I'd been cut off. I was contemplating

hanging up when I heard a click and, "What can I do for you,

Dick?"

Maybe I'm getting jaded in my old age, but I found it

interesting that he called me by my first name—we'd only

been introduced briefly and had not exchanged more than ten

words—and took it as a subtle attempt to wield control over

the situation from the start.

"First, I apologize for not having called earlier to express

my condolences over the loss of your ... nephew," I began,

the pause deliberate. If he wanted to play "who's in control,"

I was more than happy to go along. "But I have several

questions in regards to his death which I'd appreciate your

answering for me."

"Well, frankly, Dick," he said, "I have to be honest in

saying I'm not really quite sure what you might be able to do

in all this. I have already told the police everything I know,

and I have every confidence in their ability to handle the

investigation. I see little point or benefit in duplicating their

efforts."

"I understand your concern," I replied, "but I've worked

closely in conjunction with the police in several instances in

the past in cases involving the gay community, and I'm often

able to see things from a perspective they don't have. Would

you have some time to meet with me this morning? I'll be

happy to come by your office."

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There was a slight pause. "Well, this morning I'm rather

busy—I just got back from a business trip, and I have a noon

meeting with some Mercedes people in from Germany."

I was dutifully impressed but wasn't about to let him off

the hook. "Well, then, how about this afternoon? I really do

want to get started on this, and since I'm on the board's

clock, I'd like to move quickly."

His sigh conveyed his attitude more clearly than words.

"Very well. Three o'clock, then. But I'm afraid I won't have

too much time to give you."

"Whatever you can will be fine," I said. "I'll see you at

three."

He hung up without waiting for an exchange of goodbyes.

* * * *

I checked the list of chorus members Rothenberger had

given me. I knew Jerry Granville wasn't on it, but Tony Breen

was. I called, not expecting to find him home but hoping to

leave a message, only to find that he apparently didn't have

an answering machine. I let the phone ring eight times then

hung up, making a mental note to call from home after

dinner.

As long as I was on the phone, I thought I might as well

call Marty Gresham at police headquarters to see if by any

chance he might have been assigned Grant's case. He wasn't

in—hardly surprising—but I left a message asking him to call

me when he had the chance.

I wanted to start calling some of the other people from the

chorus but realized that it was, after all, a workday and my

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chances of finding anyone in were slim. I hated taking my

work home with me, but when it came to reaching people by

phone, I had little choice.

I ordered lunch from the diner and ate at my desk,

scribbling thoughts and notes and questions on a yellow lined

notepad. The problem with my scribbling anything is that

when I look at what I've written five minutes after writing it, I

can't decipher my own handwriting. I print well and always

print (in ink) my crossword puzzle answers, but with regular

writing, my mind works far faster than my fingers and trying

to block-print even a sentence would take me far longer than

my patience would allow.

I left the office around two-thirty not having heard from

Marty, and took my time getting to Central Imports. I found a

parking space across the street from the main showroom.

Luckily, it was a slightly overcast day, or I'm sure I'd have

been blinded by sunlight glinting off the chrome and mirrorsheen

polish of the ten or so new vehicles on the showroom

floor, even though they were inside. There was, I knew, a

separate "pre-owned" showroom—luxury vehicles are never

"used"—and service center on the next street behind the main

building.

I walked in the front doors, casually and vainly looking for

a single fingerprint or smudge on the glass. I at first saw no

one. Then I noticed, in one corner of the back wall of the

showroom—the only wall that wasn't solid glass—an elegantly

simple chrome desk behind which sat an elegantly groomed

gentleman in an elegant blue blazer. He smiled and got up as

I walked toward him.

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I was rather surprised, as I passed a silver Jaguar

convertible with its black top raised, to see there was a price

sticker in the rear window. Glancing toward a Rolls Royce

town car, I saw it had one, too. I had rather assumed that the

old rule I'd heard once would certainly apply here: "If you

have to ask the price, you can't afford it." Probably a state

law that the sticker be displayed. I didn't waste my time

looking at the price.

The entire place smelled of new car, leather and money.

We met at the rear of a sleek sports model I didn't

recognize but knew, without looking at the sticker, that if I

saved every single penny I earned for the next sixteen years I

still couldn't make a down payment on it.

"Mister Hardesty, I assume?" the man asked pleasantly.

And why, I wondered, did he "assume" that? I didn't think

I looked that out of place, though I felt it.

"Yes, I have an appointment with Mister Booth," I said,

totally unnecessarily, since if he knew who I was he knew

why I was there.

"Mister Booth is expecting you," he said, indicating with a

nod a hallway I had been too busy looking at the cars to

notice. "His office is the first door on the right."

I thanked him and headed toward the hall as he turned

back to his desk. Since the only thing on the desk was a

telephone, I wondered if he just sat there, like a spider on its

web, waiting for customers.

The hall was considerably longer than I'd thought, with

perhaps ten identical doors along it. I knocked on the first

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door on the right and was greeted with "Come in," which I

did.

Booth's office was like his showroom—clean, uncluttered

almost to the point of being Spartan, heavy on chrome and

unquestionably elegant. White windowless walls were daubed

with the bright colors of chrome-framed paintings. A white

carpet, two white file cabinets, white chairs in front of a white

desk that was obviously the big brother of the one in the

showroom. Booth's own desk chair, however, was black and,

therefore, the main focal point of the room.

Booth himself stood by the file cabinets, closing a drawer

as I entered. When I'd first seen him, he reminded me of a

middle-aged Orson Welles, and I'd pictured him as a latter

day Citizen Kane. Kane's empire was newspapers; Booth's

was luxury auto dealerships. I wondered briefly if he might

have a sled named "Rosebud."

After we shook hands and exchanged smileless greetings,

Booth gestured me toward the white chairs and moved behind

his desk to his own.

"My time is a little limited today," he reminded me, getting

right to the point, "so what can I tell you that I haven't

already told the police?"

"Since I wasn't here when you spoke to the police, I'm

afraid there might be a little duplication of questions. I'm sure

they asked if you knew anyone who might have reason to

harm..." I wasn't going to even pretend to go along with the

"nephew" ruse. "Grant? Or you?"

His eyes widened. "Me?" he asked incredulously, though I

can't imagine the police not having asked it.

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I shrugged. "It's just a thought," I said. "But what better

way to get back at you than by taking away something you

cared about?" I asked. "And the Porsche was yours, I

assume?"

He nodded. "Yes, but while every successful businessman

inevitably makes a few enemies over the years, I can't think

of anyone who might go to such extremes." He paused. "Yet

now that you mentioned it, I can see what you say might

have some basis. It's more logical that someone would have a

grudge against me than against Grant. Certainly, no one had

any conceivable reason to harm him!"

"Grant had no enemies that you know of?"

"No. He'd not been in the city all that long, for one thing,

and other than his involvement in the chorus, he was seldom

out of my sight."

An interesting choice of words, I thought. "What about the

chorus, then," I asked. "Any problems there?"

"None. He was very popular and very devoted to the

group. There was some minor tension between him and Roger

Rothenberger—"

"Over what?"

"I'm not sure. I suspect it was somehow related to Roger

and I having had our own disagreements and Roger taking

them out on Grant. But Grant was merely the brunt of Roger's

hostility toward me."

I chose to let that one slide for a minute and instead said,

"You say Grant was devoted to the chorus?"

"Totally. As I'm sure you know, in addition to the Tuesday

night general rehearsals, the chorus has frequent sectional

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rehearsals. Because we have occasion to go to Las Vegas

regularly on weekends, Grant was unable to attend those held

on Saturday, and Roger was obviously unhappy that he

missed them. But whenever we were in town on a Saturday,

Grant always attended, and he never missed a weeknight

sectional."

[Back to Table of Contents]

The Angel Singers

by Dorien Grey

CHAPTER FIVE

Excuse me? my own mental chorus of mind voices asked.

Surely, he couldn't be that dumb, or assume I am.

"So, he never indicated any problem with anyone from the

chorus?"

He shook his head. "Other than Roger, no. I'm sure some

of the members were jealous of Grant's talent, but I still can't

conceive of that possibly relating in any way to his murder."

Okay, enough pussyfooting, I decided.

"And what about Jim Bowers?"

He managed a puzzled look. "A tragic accident, but what

has that to do with anything?"

"Other than that Jim had a solo part Grant wanted, that

Jim was the victim of a hit-and-run, that you visited him

immediately after he regained consciousness, that he was

subsequently unable to remember details of the accident, that

a baby-blue Porsche came into your repair shop that same

night for 'emergency repairs' and that the mechanic who

worked on it has suddenly moved to Tulsa—nothing."

From the flickers of expression sparking across his face, he

was deciding whether to play injured or offended. He opted

for a blend of the two.

"I certainly do not appreciate the implications. You're

trying to make a Frankenstein's monster out of a bunch of

totally unrelated details and situations. If Grant had any

minor dispute with Jim Bowers, he certainly wouldn't have

come running to me with it. I went to see Jim out of

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compassion—I was truly concerned when I heard of his

injury.

"Grant's was not the only baby-blue Porsche in existence.

It's one of our most popular sellers. The owner was in town

on business and had a minor accident which he wished to

have repaired before returning home. Paul Jellen had made

no secret he was planning to relocate, and when one of my

friends who owns Tulsa's most exclusive dealership let me

know he was looking for a top mechanic, I put Paul in touch

with him. How you could possibly read anything sinister into

any of that, I cannot comprehend."

Silly me, I thought. But all I said was, "My intention was

not to insult you but to get at the facts. That's what private

investigators do and sometimes we have to step on a few

toes."

He said nothing, just dismissed my comments with a wave

of his hand. "I know you're doing what you see as your job,"

he said, "but I can assure you, you're looking in the wrong

place."

And where should I look? I wanted to ask, but didn't.

"How long had Grant been with you?" I asked instead.

He looked at me, obviously displeased and obviously not

quite sure how to respond. I'd already made it clear I didn't

buy into the "nephew" story, and I hoped he wasn't stupid

enough to try to give it to the police.

"Eight months."

"May I ask how you met?"

"And may I ask how that is any of your business and what

bearing it could possibly have on the matter of his death?"

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I looked at him steadily and spoke calmly. "It is my

business only because if I am to do my job, I have to know

everything I can about the victim and everything surrounding

his death. Grant was killed for a reason, and that reason has

to lie somewhere in his past, recent or distant. So ... as to

how you met?"

He shook his head in obvious disgust, accompanying the

motion with a deep sigh, in case I hadn't gotten the message.

"We met while I was on a business trip to Atlanta this past

year, through a business associate. Grant was staying with

him after having escaped from an abusive relationship with a

true psychopath. When I heard his story, I became concerned

for his safety if he remained in Atlanta. So, I suggested that

he could come here."

In other words, Grant had left one rich guy for another.

"Could I trouble you for your business associate's name?"

"Is that necessary?"

"Yes," I said simply. "It is." I was not about to play his

little games.

"Bernie Niles."

"And the 'psychopath's' name?"

"Robert Smith." His face reflected a look, as though a light

bulb had switched on inside his head. "You don't suppose..."

"I'm sorry?" I asked, my lack of patience showing. "Don't

suppose what?"

"That he might have followed Grant here?"

After eight months? Possible, yes. Likely, no. It was certainly

an interesting story, though, and he'd set it up nicely. I

had to agree with Rothenberger, Crandall Booth was certainly

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not stupid. Whether or not I could believe him was another

matter entirely.

"And why do you suppose he might do that?" Physically

attractive as Grant Jefferson may have been, handsome

young men are like that old joke about buses—if you miss

one, another will be along in a minute. However, if the guy

really was, by chance, a psychopath...

"It's rather complicated, but Grant was indirectly

responsible for his being sent to jail."

Well, that'd do it. "How did that happen?"

"As I say, it's complicated. Though Grant said very little

about it—it was obviously very traumatic for him—I gather

they met in New York. Smith was supposedly an art dealer

but was, in fact, a con artist. Somehow, he coerced Grant into

working for him, luring potential victims."

Coerced? Why did I find that a tad hard to believe? And

could Booth possibly have bought that story himself?

"Bernie met them while on business in New York and was

drawn into Smith's web. Grant subsequently came down to

Atlanta with Smith to clinch a deal for a couple of paintings

supposedly being sold by an Italian count who needed money.

It was then Grant decided to break away, and he confessed

the whole story to Bernie, who gave him asylum and had

Smith arrested."

My, my! Truly the stuff of high drama. Whether it was also

the stuff of truth remained to be seen.

I mentally did a rough estimate of how many Robert

Smiths there might be in the Georgia prison system, let alone

within a six-block radius of any point in the country.

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"Have you spoken to your friend Niles lately?"

There was a slight pause. "As I said, Bernie's more a

business associate than a friend. And no, I'm afraid I haven't

talked to him since we came back from Atlanta."

In other words, you stole his boyfriend and he's pissed at

you, my mind voice in charge of stating the obvious

observed.

"So, he doesn't know that Grant is dead?"

"I don't think so."

"I'd really like to know if anyone has contacted him

wanting to know Grant's whereabouts."

He squirmed in his seat. "Yes, I can see your point.

However, you probably have some specific questions, so

rather than me being a middleman, perhaps you should speak

to him directly."

"Do you have his phone number?"

He quickly opened a desk drawer, taking out a sheet of

"Central Imports" letterhead and a pen. He wrote down

Niles's name and number and slid it across the desk.

"You mentioned this Robert Smith to the police?" I asked.

He shook his head. "No. It honestly did not occur to me at

the time. I was in something of a state of shock. But since

you're now working on the case, couldn't you look into it

without involving the police? Much better a private

investigator than the police."

Why did I have the distinct impression he had just thrown

a stick into the bushes and yelled, "Fetch!"? If he had

sufficient suspicion about Smith to send me chasing after him,

why wouldn't he want to tell the police himself?

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"If you'll excuse me," I said, following up on the thought,

"I'm not sure why you're so reluctant to mention it to the

police."

"It's not a matter of reluctance. But I have my position to

consider, and all these details could be taken in a rather

negative light by law enforcement. I'd prefer they don't know

any more about my personal life than they have to."

"You don't think they know you're gay?"

He gave me a small smile. "I'm sure they do, but that's

totally immaterial to the matter of Grant's death, and there's

no need to go around waving dirty linen that is better left in

the hamper. And with these problems at work..."

"Problems?" I asked, finding it mildly interesting that

Booth could put work problems on the same level as finding

who killed his ... uh, I wasn't exactly what to call him.

Anyway, it struck me as more than a little peculiar.

"Yes," he said with a sigh, "the head of my accounting

department died of a heart attack three days before Grant's

... accident."

Well, I'm happy to see you have your priorities straight, I

thought.

"Interesting," I said. "Did I understand someone's having

said Grant also worked in the accounting department?"

"Yes, and Grant would have made a brilliant accountant.

Unfortunately, Irving—Irving Stapleton, head of the

department—apparently wasn't the man I thought he was.

He'd been with me for fifteen years, but I was not aware of

how badly he was running the department."

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Let me guess how he found out. "I assume Grant was the

one who alerted you to Mister Stapleton's inadequacies?"

"As a matter of fact, yes. I could tell Stapleton was

increasingly ill-at-ease ever since Grant was hired, and I

couldn't understand it. I suspect he knew Grant was on to

him."

Or he recognized a shark in the goldfish bowl when he saw

one.

From what I knew of Grant Jefferson, I sure as hell could

understand Stapleton's being "ill-at-ease." Booth couldn't

possibly be so naive as to not realize what Grant was up to

by, as Eric had described it, running to Booth with tales about

his supervisor. Booth certainly could never have gotten where

he was without knowing everything about his business, and

most particularly the accounting department! So, why was he

pulling this "I was not aware" routine?

Booth had been watching me steadily all during our

conversation. As a businessman, I'm sure he was pretty good

at reading people, but that he apparently read me as being

an idiot wasn't particularly flattering.

"The evening Irving died," he continued, "his son, Charles,

showed up at my home, totally distraught, blaming Grant for

having caused Irving's heart attack. A totally ridiculous

accusation! Irving had had a heart condition for years."

Which, I was sure, had not been materially alleviated by

the stress of having the boss's insufferable boyfriend

underfoot and undoubtedly reporting his every move back to

Booth.

"Did you mention the visit to the police?"

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He shook his head. "No. As I said, Charles was

understandably upset. He'd just lost his father; I couldn't see

causing him any more pain than he was already enduring by

reporting the incident to the police." He paused then,

dropping his voice slightly to convey sincerity, added, "Most

people see me as more of a hard-nosed businessman than a

human being. You don't get ahead in the business world

wearing your heart on your sleeve. But you must believe me

when I say that I sincerely and deeply cared for Grant."

"I'm sure you did," I said, though I was not really sure at

all. "But I do feel you should mention Smith—and the incident

with Charles Stapleton—to the police. In the meantime, I'll

give Bernie Niles a call and see what more I can find out

about Smith."

I paused only briefly before saying, "So, other than Smith

and Stapleton, do you know of anyone else outside of the

chorus who might want to harm Grant?"

He shook his head. "No, I'm afraid not. And I'm quite sure

even Roger Rothenberger, duplicitous and power-hungry as

he is, wouldn't stoop to murder."

A smooth bit of damning with faint praise, there, Boothy, I

thought. I especially found modifying sure with quite a nice

touch.

I knew my next question would go over like a concrete

dirigible, but I had to ask it. "And was everything going okay

between you and Grant?"

"Of course!" he said, scowling.

"Grant wasn't getting wanderlust?"

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100

"I'm not sure that I understand—or appreciate—the

implication of your questions. My relationship with Grant was

strictly that of a caring mentor. I am not some sort of sexual

predator lusting after young men."

Of course you aren't, I thought. And I am the King of

Romania.

"Sorry," I said, even though I wasn't, "but I'd heard Grant

had set his eye on Broadway."

"That's true," Booth admitted. "Grant was incredibly

talented, and he had my full support in everything he wanted

to do. But we realized it would be some time before he was

truly ready. And when he was, well, I would send him off with

my blessing."

I wondered who was going to make the determination as

to when he was ready. I suspected Grant had a somewhat

shorter timetable than Booth.

He looked at his watch in a way that would have conveyed

his meaning to the top row of the balcony.

"I have a staff meeting in ten minutes," he said, "so if

we're through here..."

I got up from my chair. "Yes, I think so. I may well have

some other questions later. Thank you for your time."

He did not get up, just gave me a lips-only smile. "You're

quite welcome," he said, and I deliberately stepped up to the

desk to extend my hand so he had to partially rise to reach

across to take it.

He sat back down as I turned and walked from his office,

not looking back.

* * * *

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101

Well, that had been an interesting if water-muddying visit.

I didn't buy the "caring mentor" line for a nanosecond, and I

doubted that Booth was as unaware of Grant's activities as he

let on. So Grant had "never missed a weekday sectional," eh?

And this whole Robert Smith story still struck me as a patent

attempt at putting up a smokescreen—to hide what, I had no

idea.

But that he wanted me to go off looking for a convicted

felon named Smith in the Georgia or New York—it occurred to

me that he might have been extradited from Georgia—prison

system? That would keep me distracted until Joshua's Social

Security benefits kicked in.

I also wanted to know more of the story behind the death

of Irving Stapleton. I had little doubt that Charles Stapleton's

accusations about Grant's contributing to the heart attack had

merit, but whether his justifiable anger might have motivated

him to murder was yet to be determined.

And I needed to get in touch with Bernie Niles in Atlanta.

But first I wanted to have a talk with Marty Gresham

and/or Lieutenant Mark Richman at police headquarters to

see what they'd be willing to tell me about their investigation

into Grant's death.

* * * *

Rather than return to the office, I headed on home,

stopping at the store to pick up a few things from a list

Jonathan had given me that morning.

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102

After dinner and dishes, while Joshua played in his room, I

decided to call Tony Breen to see if I could get Jerry

Granville's number. Jonathan volunteered to talk to Tony for

me, on the logical grounds that Tony might be a bit more

comfortable talking with someone he knew from the chorus,

but I thought it might be easier if I did it myself rather than

Jonathan's having to go into details as to why he wanted

Jerry's number. I think Jonathan had probably told nearly

everyone in the chorus what I did for a living, so if Tony

wanted to know why I wanted the number, I could tell him I

was looking into Grant's death.

So, we compromised. Jonathan called Tony to talk about a

few chorus-related things, then said I had a question for him

and transferred him over to me.

I could tell from the way the tone of his voice changed the

minute I mentioned Jerry's name that I was treading on

sensitive ground; and when I asked for a phone number, he

said Jerry was staying with a mutual friend, whose name and

number I wrote down. As long as I had him on the phone and

had already reopened the wound, I thought I might as well

take it a step farther.

"Look, Tony, I realize we've only met once and that this is

probably a touchy subject for you, but since I'm checking into

all the circumstances surrounding Grant's death, I was

wondering if you might give me a little further insight into

what kind of guy he was."

"Other than a first-class prick, you mean?"

"Well, I understand he was pretty much of a

troublemaker," I said, "and I was wondering which other of

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103

the guys he might have pulled his little number on? Especially

anyone you know of who might have been unhappy or angry

enough to want to see him dead. I understand Jerry has a

pretty bad temper, and I'd like to be able to look elsewhere, if

I could."

His tone softened slightly. "You can't seriously think Jerry

had something to do with it? He's got a short fuse, sure, but

he always gets over it quickly and he could never do anything

like that. Never."

"I understand," I said, trying to worm my way into his

good graces. "But I'm sure the police investigation will get

around to him, if it hasn't already, and it would probably help

to know that he wasn't the only one with a motive.

"So, who else did Grant jerk around?"

"Just about everybody at one time or another. He was a

real prick-teaser. I know he really hurt Barry, and he pissed

off a few of the other members' partners, but..."

"None of them might have gotten angry enough to want to

kill him?"

There was a long pause before, "No. Honestly. Wanting to

kill someone is one thing, doing it is another. I can't believe

that hating a guy's guts could really be a motive for murder."

Frankly, neither could I. But the fact remained that

somebody had killed Grant for reasons that probably went

deeper than the guy's being an asshole.

I figured I'd gotten about as much from Tony as I was

likely to get for the moment, so I thanked him for his time,

we exchanged goodbyes and hung up.

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104

I immediately tried calling the number he had given me,

but there was no answer and no machine. I folded the paper

with the number and put it in my billfold for the next day.

* * * *

The first thing I did Tuesday morning, before even starting

the coffee, was to put in a call to Marty Gresham. Since I

knew he spent most of his time out of the office, I wanted to

try to catch him before he left. Luck was with me when his

extension was picked up and I heard the familiar voice.

"Detective Gresham."

"Marty, it's Dick. Glad I caught you."

"Sorry I didn't get a chance to return your call yesterday,"

he said. "So, you're working on the Jefferson case."

I hadn't mentioned that in my message to him, but it

wasn't surprising that he'd figured it out.

"Can I assume you and Dan..." Dan Carpenter was Marty's

work partner. "...have the case?"

"Yeah. Dan says we get all the gay cases because I know

you. Dan's brother is always ribbing him about it."

Dan 's brother Earl was also a homicide detective, a nice

guy whose partner was an old-school homophobe with whom

I'd had some nasty run-ins on past cases. Earl, however,

seemed to have inherited the Homo sapiens genes his

Neanderthal partner so clearly lacked, and we got along fine.

"When can we get together to talk about it?" Marty asked.

"You name it."

"How about your office. One o'clock, one-fifteen?"

"It's a date," I said.

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105

"Don't you wish?" he teased.

Though Marty was hopelessly straight, with a wife and

daughter and a second child on the way, he and Dan

Carpenter were, unlike Carpenter's brother's partner and

many others on the police force, totally comfortable with my

being gay. Not that it would have mattered if he wasn't, but it

did make it a lot easier this way.

"Oh, and one more thing while we're on the phone," I said.

"Is there any way you can look into someone's juvenile

records? They might have been sealed."

"Well, that could be a problem, but not impossible," he

said. "What's the name?"

"Barry Legget," I said, spelling the last name for him. "He's

in his mid-twenties now, and I don't have any exact dates."

"I'll see what I can do."

The number Booth had given me for Bernie Niles got me

no further than his answering machine, and I left both my

numbers in hopes he'd get back to me, though, especially if

he were still pissed at Booth, there was no particular reason

to think he would once he recognized the area code.

* * * *

I decided to hold off trying to reach Jerry Granville until

that night, when there'd be a better chance of finding him in.

At exactly one-fifteen, shortly after I'd finished the

downstairs diner's Meatloaf Special and taken the trash to the

disposal room on my floor, the shadows of Detectives

Gresham and Carpenter appeared on the opaque-glass half of

my door, followed by a crisp knock.

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106

"Open," I called. "Coffee?" I asked as they took seats on

the two chairs facing my desk.

"No, thanks," Carpenter said. "We just finished lunch."

"So," I said, knowing they were busy and probably wanted

to get right to the point, "what can you tell me about the

Jefferson case?"

Marty grinned. "Odd, we were going to ask you the same

thing."

"You first."

They exchanged glances before Marty said, "Well, whoever

did it wanted to make damned sure they got their message

across. They used not one but two pipe bombs under the

driver's seat and jointly wired them to the ignition. The

bombs themselves were almost high-school stuff, literally.

Anyone with a basic knowledge of chemistry and wiring could

have done it. Trying to trace the individual components back

to their source is next to impossible. And what hardware store

doesn't carry duct tape and wire? It's all pretty generic stuff."

"And what about the explosive itself?" I asked.

"You can find it in just about any school chemistry lab.

Again, pretty generic stuff. The actual putting it all together

probably takes a little research, but that wouldn't difficult for

someone with any real desire to figure out how it's done. And

all the other components could be picked up in almost any

hardware store."

"Any prints on anything you recovered?"

Dan shook his head. "Nope. Whoever did it wasn't a

dummy."

"How long would it take to install a bomb?" I asked.

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107

Carpenter shrugged. "Once it was all put together? Maybe

five, ten minutes. Bomb under the seat, wire from bomb to

ignition—that's the part that takes the most time."

"Yeah, but wouldn't Grant have immediately noticed a wire

running from under the seat up to the ignition?" I asked. "I

can't see how he could have missed it."

"Well, whoever did it slit the carpet just enough to run the

wire under it, all the way up the firewall. We found small

pieces of duct tape, which was probably used to hide the wire

where it came out from under the carpet and ran along the

passenger's side of the steering column."

"Seems to me the bomber took quite a risk of being

caught," I said. "Somebody could easily have seen him

screwing around under the dashboard." I said. "And he had to

be pretty confident that Grant wouldn't show up."

"Well," Carpenter said, "we think the plant probably was

done in two stages. Most likely most of it was done while

Jefferson was at work—employees park in the same lot as

cars brought in for service, so it wouldn't be unusual to see

someone monkeying around inside one of them. We think he

might have gotten most of it done except for the actual

connection to the ignition switch when something scared him

off.

"Most likely he followed Jefferson after work, waiting for

the chance to make the final connection. He obviously

couldn't risk it in the supermarket parking lot, but when he

saw Jefferson come out and drive off with another guy, he

probably figured out what was going on and that he'd have

more than enough time while the car was parked at the trick's

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108

house. Jefferson was leaving the guy's place when he

triggered the bomb."

"Was this guy someone Grant knew, or a pickup?" I asked.

"He's just some kid who works at the supermarket. He said

he'd met Jefferson as he was getting off work and that he

invited him over. He claimed he'd never seen Jefferson

before, and his story checked out. One of his buddies from

the supermarket had seen the pick-up."

"Sounds like something Grant would do," I said. "You've

talked to Crandall Booth, I understand."

"Within an hour of the explosion," Marty said. "And while

he appeared to be duly shocked by the news, he wasn't too

helpful. According to him, Jefferson was simply a friend from

Atlanta staying with him, and he claimed he knew very little

about Jefferson's private life. We took that one with about

three pounds of salt.

"He claimed he hadn't left work until around eight and that

checked out. So, he wouldn't have had time to make it from

work to the fifteen-hundred block of East Monroe to hook up

the bomb. But anyone with his money could easily have hired

someone else to do the job for him. We're looking very

closely at his recent financial transactions. It's beginning to

look like he has a rather serious gambling problem."

"Partly based on that, we also briefly considered whether

Booth might have been the target rather than Jefferson," Dan

added. "It was his car, after all, and a man that rich,

especially one with a gambling addiction, has to have

enemies."

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109

"Yeah," Marty added, "but since the bomb had to have

been connected to the ignition at the scene, that meant

whoever did it was following Jefferson and knew who was

driving."

"And you told Booth the circumstances of the explosion—

where Grant was and why?"

"Well, we told him where and that we'd interviewed the

guy he was visiting. I'm sure Booth could fill in the blanks,"

Dan said.

"And his reaction?"

"He repeated that he didn't know anything about

Jefferson's personal life."

When I'd talked with Booth, I'd found his protestations

that Grant was pure as the driven snow somewhat hard to

swallow. Now, realizing that he knew perfectly well when he

talked to me where Grant had died and what he'd been doing

there, I found his remarks flat-out suspect.

"So, I gather that at the moment, Booth's top on your list,"

I said.

"At the moment," Marty replied. "We're looking as closely

as we can into his past, and we understand Jefferson was

something less than an applicant for sainthood. Which is why

we're here talking to you. What's your take on all this? What

do you know that we don't?"

I told them everything I knew, including the details of Jim

Bowers's accident, Booth's having visited Bowers at the

hospital, the "coincidence" of Booth's mechanic being called in

at night for repairs to a baby-blue Porsche and the mechanic's

subsequent suspicious move to Tulsa.

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110

I also gave them a recap of my conversations with the

various chorus members and Rothenberger, including Booth's

story about the mysterious Robert Smith.

"Now, it strikes me that, if Booth really did think Smith

might be involved, he would have made a point of telling you

about him," I said. "Even if he were completely innocent and

not thinking clearly when you first interviewed him, I'd surely

think he'd have called you later to mention the guy."

Marty and Dan looked at one another, then at me and

shook their heads in unison.

"Not yet, anyway," Dan said.

"Well," I told them, "my first reaction was that he might be

making it up on the spot to get me off his back. If he does

contact you about it, I might take it a bit more seriously. I did

get the name and phone number for the guy in Atlanta who

handed Grant off to him—his name's Bernie Niles, and I get

the idea that the hand-off wasn't exactly voluntarily.

"Booth claims Smith was trying to run a scam on Niles,

and that Grant ratted him out and Smith went to jail because

of it. If that's true, it could have made the guy mad enough to

want to kill him, especially if Booth was right in calling Smith

a psychopath. And if by chance Smith did track Grant here,

the only way he could have done so would be through Niles.

I've got a call in to Niles, but he hasn't returned it yet."

"Tell you what," Carpenter said, "why don't you give us the

number? I've got a buddy on the Atlanta force who owes me

a favor. I'll ask him to check with Niles and find out anything

he can about this Smith character."

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"I appreciate that, Dan," I said. "But I've found that gays

are more willing to talk to another gay than to the police. Let

me see what I can find out about Smith from him. But if you

could check Smith's criminal history, we can combine our

notes."

They didn't look as though they were quite convinced.

"Look," I said, "if this is all a wild goose chase, I'll have

saved you the time and trouble to do it yourselves. If I turn

up anything of interest, you can take it from there."

The two detectives exchanged glances, then Carpenter

said, "Okay. It's not like we're exactly looking for extra work."

"You know, we really should put you on the payroll," Marty

said with a grin.

"I appreciate the thought," I said, "and no disrespect, but I

think I prefer things the way they are. We've got a nice thing

going here, and in my line of work I don't think it would be a

big plus to be associated too closely with the police. But I've

got it on my list of things I want to be when I grow up—right

after 'fireman.'"

"Well," Dan said, getting up from his chair, "we'd better

get going. I wish Jefferson's was the only case we were

working on, but it's not. We'll be in touch."

[Back to Table of Contents]

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CHAPTER SIX

I made a pot of fresh coffee and sat at my desk, cup held

in both hands, staring at my partial reflection on the unruffled

black surface. I guess I was trying to figure out exactly where

I stood on this case and, more importantly, where it was

headed.

All the arrows still pointed at Crandall Booth, and I was

perfectly aware that in a detective novel the one thing you

could be sure of is that the guy all the clues point to didn't do

it. But this wasn't a detective novel, and like they say, if it

walks like a duck and quacks like a duck, chances are pretty

good it's a duck.

Of the textbook motives for murder—jealousy, anger,

greed and control—I could readily identify Booth with all of

them. I would imagine with him, control was primary, with

jealousy and anger close behind. That the greed was most

likely Grant's didn't make it any less a motive for Booth.

Their both being controllers indicated theirs was not

exactly a match made in heaven. Not only was Grant

apparently doing whatever he damned well felt like doing, he

was doing it on Booth's money and using Booth's car. Even I

could see he was doing a pretty good job of punching holes in

Booth's rock-walled ego.

I don't know why Booth hadn't kicked Grant out on his ass,

or passed him off to another rich guy looking for a pretty

trophy boyfriend. Maybe he'd tried, and Grant had something

on him that severely limited his options.

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I also wouldn't be surprised if Booth's siding so strongly

with Grant in chorus matters might have less to do with

supporting him than as a way to undercut Roger

Rothenberger. Grant obviously saw his chorus-lead-singer

credits as a stepping stone to bigger and better things in New

York or Los Angeles or Chicago or anywhere but here. I

personally thought that was a little naive, since I couldn't see

how having a solo in a chorus would be that big a deal, but

what did I know?

But if Grant had deliberately tried to run over Jim Bowers—

and I had no doubt but that he had—to get it, that was a

pretty strong indication of its importance to him. The fact that

the Porsche had gone into Booth's shop the same night Jim

was run down told me Booth knew exactly what was going

on.

Despite Booth's protestations of caring deeply for Grant, it

was clear the kid had definitely become a real problem for

him, and the sooner he got him whatever it was he wanted,

the sooner Grant could be out of his hair.

Yeah, but why kill him? It was pretty obvious Grant wasn't

planning to be around all that much longer. Surely, Booth

could have waited it out.

Except that Rothenberger's not going along with plan to

provide a springboard to bounce Grant to fame and fortune—

but most importantly to Booth out of town—was more than an

inconvenience.

Still, I couldn't really believe that if Booth had wanted

Grant dead he wouldn't have found a way to do it that didn't

involve blowing up one of his own very expensive luxury cars.

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I definitely wanted to have a talk with Charles Stapleton to

see exactly why he blamed Grant for his father's death. I

hadn't asked Booth for Stapleton's phone number, though I

should have. I decided to look in the phone book first.

Fortunately, I found it.

"Hello?" a woman's voice said after the fourth ring.

"Is Mister Stapleton in?"

"No, he's at work. Can I have him call you?"

"Yes, if you would, please." I gave her my work and home

numbers.

"Can I tell him what this is about?"

I was afraid she was going to ask that. I always hate going

into long explanations and try to avoid them whenever

possible.

"I'm a private investigator looking into a case that only

peripherally involves Mister Stapleton's late father, and I have

a few questions Mister Stapleton might be able to answer for

me."

Her voice was tinged with suspicion when she said, "Very

well. I'll give him your message."

I thanked her and hung up. Whether she would give him

the message and whether he would bother to return my call I

had no way of knowing. Sometimes, being a private investigator

isn't much fun.

* * * *

In the few minutes between finishing dinner and

Jonathan's leaving for chorus practice, I tried calling Jerry

Granville.

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"Hello?"

"Jerry Granville?"

"No, he's not here. I don't know if he'll be back tonight or

not."

I left both my home and work numbers and asked to have

Jerry call me.

"Okay," he said and hung up.

Half an hour later, Joshua and I were "reading" the latest

issue of Life—one of his favorite magazines because of the

pictures—when the phone rang. Hoping it was either Granville

or Stapleton, I opted to answer with, "Dick Hardesty."

"Yes, this is Charles Stapleton. My wife told me you'd

called. This is about Crandall Booth and his fruit boyfriend,

isn't it? You're working for him now?"

Well, we're off to a good start.

"If you're referring to the death of Grant Jefferson, the

answer is yes, but no, I am not working for Crandall Booth."

That was only a partial lie, since I was technically working for

the board, not Booth. "When I talked to him, he mentioned

your anger against the victim, and I was curious as to what

that was all about."

"Victim?" he snarled. "My father was the victim! That little

fairy killed him!"

"How do you come by that conclusion?" I kept my voice

calm.

"He knew Dad had a bad heart!" he said, his voice still

showing his anger. "But he never let up. He was

insubordinate, totally incompetent and would run to his

boyfriend Booth with lie after lie. My father spent fifteen years

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trying to keep Booth afloat, and this is how he's repaid? By

being called into Booth's office to answer spurious charges

and complaints?

"I told Dad he should quit then and there, that no job was

worth what he was being put through. But he was too proud

to quit, and now he's dead."

"I'm truly sorry for your loss," I said and meant it, "but a

bomb under a car seat is quite a different matter than a heart

attack, undeniably unfortunate as that was. So, you have no

idea who might have killed Grant Jefferson?"

"I wish I did know," Stapleton said. "I'd shake his hand

and offer to buy him a drink. Several."

"You've not talked to the police, I gather?"

There was only a split-second pause. "Of course not! Why

should I have?"

"May I ask what type of work you do?"

"I'm in construction, why?" Then there was a very

significant pause before: "Oh, no, you don't! You're not going

to blame this on me! If I'd killed that bastard I'd have

strangled him with my bare hands, just to watch the

expression on his face."

"May I ask where you were the night of the murder?" I

immediately pictured myself as a character in an old blackand-

white B-movie.

"And how would that be any of your business?" he asked.

"You think I need an alibi? Why in the hell would I need one?

I told you I didn't do it!"

Well, this certainly is a fun conversation, I thought.

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"Sorry," I said, "but I'm sure the police would want to

know."

"You're going to sic the police on me?" he asked, sounding

incredulous.

"Look at it this way," I said. "I don't know if the police

know of your visit to Booth and Jefferson ... yet. But since it's

only natural they will be looking at Booth very closely as a

possible suspect, it's pretty likely he'll get around to

mentioning your visit, if for no other reason than to point the

finger away from himself. So, if you don't have a damned

good alibi for where you were the night Grant Jefferson was

killed..." I didn't think I had to finish the sentence.

There was a long, put-upon sigh, then: "I can't even

remember exactly what the date was. I sure as hell didn't

think I'd need an alibi for it."

"It was Monday, the twentieth," I volunteered. "Right after

your dad died."

Another pause. "I remember, because my wife plays

bridge every Monday and she didn't want to go, but I talked

her into it. I stayed at work and didn't get home until around

ten."

"And you were at work the whole time?"

"Yeah, except for running out to grab a sandwich around

six."

"Do you remember if anyone saw you? Anyone who might

have seen you coming or going?"

"No. My office is in a construction trailer at the work site,

and everyone goes home at five. But hell, if I'd thought I was

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going to need an alibi I'd have stood on the roof waving flares

to let people know I was there."

I could appreciate that nobody expects to be asked for an

alibi for those times when they're alone, but still, his claiming

to have gone out for a sandwich around the time Grant had

met a guy at the supermarket was interesting.

"Where did you go for your sandwich?"

"The SuperRite about two blocks away. They've got a deli.

What's that got to do with anything?"

"Just curious," I lied. "Did you by any chance go by Central

Imports that day?"

"Yeah," he said. "I had to pick up some of my dad's things

from his office. Why?"

"As I said, just curious." I was still lying. Deciding I had

more than enough to think about for the moment, I said,

"Well, my main reason for calling was to find out what Grant

had done to upset you so strongly. I think you've cleared that

up pretty well. Thanks for your time, and I hope I don't have

to bother you again." That last comment was specifically to

leave the door slightly ajar in case I did have to get back to

him for some reason. "And again, my condolences on the loss

of your dad."

We exchanged goodbyes and hung up.

While I really could empathize with his anger, I'd definitely

mention it to Marty. I'd also check to verify if Grant might,

indeed, have picked his last trick up at that particular store. If

it was, that could well be another big scoop out of the hole

Stapleton was digging for himself. He might well have been

following Grant all along and only used the fact of the

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proximity of the supermarket to his work as a bit of

serendipity, compounded by Grant's picking up a trick there.

* * * *

As soon as I got to the office Wednesday morning, I put in

a call to Marty, who not surprisingly wasn't in. So, I spent the

next hour or so sitting at my desk staring at my coffee cup,

mulling over the case in general and my previous night's

conversation with Stapleton.

The coincidences of his going out to a supermarket at

about the time Grant was picking up his trick at one and of

having been at Central Imports the same day the bomb was

most likely planted, his admitted anger at Grant, his being in

construction and undoubtedly having access to explosive

materials—all could be pretty damning. But that he'd made no

effort to deny or cover up anything could indicate that he was

innocent; either that, or guilty and pretty shrewd about it.

He'd know that if the cops checked out his alibi the facts

would come out anyway. Better to not increase suspicion by

lying about anything. It was, after all, all circumstantial.

Though I hoped I might hear from Jerry Granville, he

didn't call. Nor did Bernie Niles. I put in another call to Niles

and left another message, stressing that it was important I

talk to him and that he could call collect. That was a little ploy

I sometimes used on long distance calls—the implication the

person being called might not be able to afford to call back

was usually responded to defensively and almost guaranteed

they would call ... and not collect.

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The day passed as days do, and I was getting ready to

leave the office for home when Marty called. I gave him a

detailed account of my conversation with Stapleton, including

the string of maybe/maybe not coincidences relating to

Grant's last day on earth.

"Which supermarket does Grant's trick work for, and what

time was the pickup?" I asked.

"He works for the SuperRite on Elmdale, and it was a little

before the kid got off work at six," Marty said. "Why?"

"Stapleton says he went to a SuperRite for his sandwich ...

at about six o'clock," I reported.

"Well, well," Marty replied. "The coincidences keep piling

up, don't they? The kid lives within half a mile of the store,

and there are a couple of construction sites within three

blocks of it. We'll definitely want to have a talk with him."

"And Booth didn't mention Stapleton's visit to his house?" I

asked.

"No. We'll be talking with him later today, and we'll see if

he brings it up. Interesting, though, if he doesn't. I'd think

that if he was guilty of Jefferson's murder, he'd be pointing

fingers in every direction to take the heat off himself."

"Two great minds with but a single thought," I said,

remembering I'd said exactly the same thing to Stapleton.

"Any clues yet from the bomb fragments?"

"I'm afraid not. As I told you, there were no fingerprints,

not even a partial. We fingerprinted the car's door handles,

found Jefferson's and Booth's, that's it. Since it was Booth's

car, I'd have been surprised if they weren't on it."

"Point. And nothing else?"

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"Nope. As we told you, the bomb components are all

available in practically any hardware store. We're trying to

trace the pipe, duct-tape and wire to their manufacturers, but

given the fact we only have bits and pieces, that isn't going to

be easy. Even if we could track every sales receipt from every

hardware store in town, this guy was probably smart enough

not to buy everything at the same time or from the same

place.

"Same thing is true of the explosive—no halfway sharp

chemistry student would have a problem putting it together.

We still have some other areas to look into, but right now we

seem to be spinning our wheels.

"Oh," he added, "and I was able to check out your friend

Barry Legget. He spent three months in juvvie for assault

when he was fourteen."

"Any details?"

"Apparently, he attacked a school bully who'd been giving

him a really hard time. He fractured the kid's skull with a

rock."

I found that bit of information both interesting and,

frankly, surprising. Barry would be the last person I'd think of

as being the violent type. But I learned long ago that what

you see isn't always what you get.

Marty's voice brought me back to the present. "I assume

you think he might be involved?"

"I'd really hate to think so," I said. "He strikes me as a

nice kid."

"Yeah, well, the jails are full of nice kids. We'll have a talk

with him, too."

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Though I felt a twinge of guilt about dragging Barry into it,

I understood their position and filed the information in my

own mental follow-up file.

"So, anything else?" he asked.

"Not that I haven't already told you. Though if you have

the chance, could you check and see if you have anything at

all on a Jerry Granville? He went after Grant at a chorus

rehearsal and may be something of a loose cannon. I hate to

send you running off on a trail that probably won't lead

anywhere, but..."

"Don't worry about it," he said. "I'd rather follow up on six

dead-end trails than miss one that might lead somewhere."

* * * *

That evening we decided to save a little time by going out

to dinner at Cap'n Rooney's Fish Shack, Joshua's favorite finedining

establishment, before Jonathan went to class. As usual,

we took two cars so he could go directly from dinner to

school.

Joshua, as always, was fascinated by the fish in Cap'n

Rooney's trademark huge fish tank. And, as usual since our

having taken him to a Red Lobster, he demanded to know

why there weren't any lobsters in the tank. He had,

fortunately, not yet made the connection between the

creatures he so dearly loved to look at and what was served

on his plate.

I'd intended, when we got home, to put in a call to Bernie

Niles, giving him the benefit of the doubt in assuming his

work schedule had prevented him from contacting me during

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the day. That logic worked for why he hadn't called me at the

office but fell a little short considering I'd given him my home

phone as well.

However, when we got home, Joshua kept me totally

distracted with a steady stream of games he wanted to play

and magazines he wanted to "read" and general vigorous

roughhousing, including, while wrestling, my narrowly missing

being kicked in the privates when a flailing foot caught me

off-guard. By the time I'd gotten him bathed, toweled, toothbrushed,

pajama-ed, in bed and story-timed, we both were

fairly well pooped. I still could and probably should have

called, but I figured the hell with it.

Jonathan got home in a ... playful ... mood, having aced a

test. Surprising how being tired can sort of go away under the

right conditions.

* * * *

Around ten o'clock Thursday morning, there was a knock

at my door. Not expecting anyone, I decided not to stand on

formality and merely called out, "Come on in."

"Am I catching you at a bad time?" Eric asked as he

entered.

To say I was surprised to see him would be an

understatement, but I tried not to let it show.

"Not at all," I said.

He closed the door behind him.

"I don't go in to work today until around one," he said,

crossing toward me, "and since I was in the neighborhood I

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thought I'd drop by—you said it was okay when I was over for

dinner that first time."

"Not a problem," I said. "Have a seat."

He stood in front of my desk, looking around the room,

then appeared to notice the closest chair and sat down.

"I told you it wasn't much," I said with a grin.

"No, no! This is interesting. I've never been in a PI's office

before. Sort of like reading a detective book."

"I'm glad you think so. Is your work schedule always this

flexible?"

He shrugged, gaze still wandering around the room.

"Pretty much. It depends mostly on what has to get done

when. And I work so much overtime they're happy when

things are slow enough for me to take some time off. Saves

them money."

I wasn't quite sure what to say next so there was a bit of a

pause until he said, "I was wondering if you might want to

take a few minutes to go out for coffee."

I indicated my coffeemaker with a nod. I was sure he'd

seen it when he came in.

"I can offer you a cup here, if you'd like. I'm expecting a

call"—I lied—"so I'd better stay close to home."

"Sure," he said brightly. "That'd be fine."

I got up and went to pour our coffee. There was just

enough to fill his cup and partly fill mine. "Cream—make that

creamer, since I don't have a fridge—and sugar?"

He shook his head. "Black's fine."

When we'd had dinner and brunch with him, he'd taken

both cream and sugar.

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He took the cup with thanks, and I moved around to sit

back down at my desk.

"I told Jonathan I'd be coming by one of these days," he

said. "I hope he won't be jealous."

I grinned. "Jonathan isn't the jealous type." I resisted

adding "unlike me."

"Good," he said. "I wouldn't want either one of you to

think I was coming on to you."

A rather odd statement.

"Furthest thing from my mind," I assured him, lying again.

"Not that I wouldn't in a heartbeat if you weren't with

Jonathan," he added.

Uh, is it getting a bit warm in here? a mind-voice asked.

"That's nice of you to say," I replied noncommitally.

"So," he said, taking a sip of his coffee, "are you still

working on Grant's murder ... if you don't mind my asking?"

"Ask away," I said. "I don't mind. I was hoping to talk to

you to see if there might be something else you've thought of

that could help me."

"Glad to help," he said, "but I'm not sure how."

"Well, you're in a unique situation with the chorus. You

know everybody, and from what I understand most of the

members confide in you. I'm curious about what you might

know about Grant's relationships with Crandall Booth and

Roger Rothenberger, and the relationship between Booth and

Rothenberger."

Taking another sip of coffee, he leaned forward to set the

cup on the edge of my desk.

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"Grant certainly never 'confided' in me," he said. "Any time

he told me anything, he had a damned good reason for it.

Right after he joined, he told me that Roger had come on to

him and had then gotten really pissed when Grant said no. I

know damned well that's a lie—Grant would sleep with

anyone if he thought it was to his advantage to do so. If

anybody came on to anybody, I can almost guarantee it was

him who came on to Roger."

"But why do you suppose he told you that?"

"I don't think he knew at the time that Roger and I are

close. I think he was starting his little campaign to turn

everyone against each other. I suppose he figured that was a

way to get what he wanted. The old divide-and-conquer

thing."

"Were you able to find out anything about his relationship

with Crandall?"

"Grant made it perfectly clear he considered Crandall to be

nothing more than an open cash drawer, but you can bet your

bottom dollar he never let Crandall know that! Whenever I

saw them together, Grant was the perfect little boy-toy. I

really can't imagine Crandall didn't know what was going on."

"What about the running feud between Crandall and

Roger?" I finished my coffee but kept holding the empty cup

to have something to do with my hands.

"That goes back a long time before Grant," Eric said.

"They've butted heads from the very start. Roger is pretty

territorial when it comes to the chorus, and Crandall likes to

push his weight around. Roger would stand up to him any

time he thought Crandall was going too far.

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"But when Grant showed up, things really started going to

hell. I think Roger was afraid Crandall might be using Grant to

undermine his control. And Grant really did a lot of damage,

maybe not directly to Roger but to the chorus's morale."

He paused a moment before continuing. "A lot of the guys

were really upset with the way things started going almost

from the minute Grant showed up, but they stuck around

mainly for the Chicago trip. If Grant was still around, I know

damned well he'd have managed to provoke Roger and

Crandall into a real showdown. If that happened, Crandall

might well have withdrawn his financial support from the

chorus to spite Roger, and that would totally destroy what

was left of the morale and drive a lot of guys out of the

chorus. It might never have recovered.

"With Grant out of the picture, Crandall can let up a bit and

go back to using the chorus as a tax write-off."

"You're pretty smart," I said, impressed by his

undoubtedly accurate grasp of the situation.

He grinned. "Hey, I'm not just another pretty face."

"Has Barry ever confided in you? About anything other

than Grant's nastiness?"

His expression changed to one of mild suspicion. "A little,"

he admitted. "Like what?"

"I understand Barry had some problems when he was in

high school," I said.

"Oh, you mean about fracturing that guy's skull and being

sent to juvvie?"

"Yeah, like that."

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"Well, I figured you knew already knew about it or you

wouldn't have asked."

"Yeah, I knew about it," I said, "but I didn't know the

details. I was wondering if he might have told you. Did he

claim it was an accident, or..."

"Oh, no. Barry meant it. The guy was a real prick and had

been making Barry's life hell until one day he decided he'd

had enough, and when the guy came after him the next time,

Barry picked up a rock and brained him. He went to juvvie

because he admitted it; he didn't try to make excuses for

what he'd done. I admire him for that."

Part of me admired him for standing up to a bully, too, and

I know everyone does spur-of-the-moment things they later

regret, but if he reacted with such violence once...

"You're really wonderful with Joshua," Eric commented, out

of nowhere. "I mean, you're not even related to him. He was

lucky you were there for him."

"Well, I'm sort of related by marriage," I replied, grinning.

"Most of the credit goes to Jonathan. It's not always easy."

There was a moment's break in the conversation.

"I can't imagine what it must have been like for you," I

said, referring to the death of his own family when he was

hardly more than a kid.

He gave me a small, wistful smile. "I survived," he said.

"I'm sure you really must miss them."

He looked at me oddly then suddenly got up. "Well, I've

taken up enough of your time. Coffee break's over. I'd better

let you get back to work."

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I was really sorry to think I'd struck a nerve and upset him

but didn't know whether I should say anything or not.

But he smiled as he reached across the desk to shake my

hand—and held it a little longer than necessary.

"Thanks for the coffee. And tell Jonathan I didn't come on

to you ... this time," he added with a grin.

"I'll do that," I said as he released my hand and headed for

the door. He waved over his shoulder without looking back

and left.

What in the hell was that all about? I wondered. I hoped I

hadn't inadvertently opened an old wound, and I really hoped

he was kidding about hitting on me; but I can be a little

dense at times, though I was sure he wouldn't seriously

jeopardize his friendship with Jonathan. While I was flattered

to think he might harbor an erotic fantasy or two, I have

closets full of erotic fantasies, and I would never act on them

in real life. If I weren't with Jonathan it might be a different

story.

But you are with Jonathan, a mind-voice cautioned. Don't

even go there.

It was right, and I forced my attention back to the

problems at hand. Regardless of what Eric's motives were for

coming by, I was glad he had. Probably more than anyone

else I'd talked to about the chorus, he was in a position to

have the broadest and most objective overview of the

situation. He knew far more about what was going on there

than I ever could.

I did find it interesting, and somehow reassuring, that

Barry had been open with Eric about his juvenile record. That

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it confirmed what Marty had said indicated Barry wasn't trying

to cover anything up. For Jonathan's sake, and the sake of

everyone else in the chorus, I hoped Eric was right in thinking

things would settle down now that Grant was out of the

picture.

All of which did nothing to tell me who had killed Grant

Jefferson. As usual, lots of smoke and mirrors, little

substance.

Crandall Booth remained at the top of my suspects list

followed, for reasons I couldn't specify, by Roger

Rothenberger; then came Charles Stapleton, Jerry Granville,

Barry Legget—reluctantly—and all those other guys in the

chorus Grant had screwed over. And, though still lurking out

there in the shadows, most definitely Robert Smith, the

possible stalker from New York.

[Back to Table of Contents]

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by Dorien Grey

131

CHAPTER SEVEN

I was getting ready to go down to the diner in the lobby

and pick up something for lunch when the phone rang. I

hurried back to my desk and leaned across it to pick up.

"Hardesty Investigations."

"Yeah," a very butch-sounding voice said, "this is Jerry

Granville. You wanted to talk to me?"

"As a matter of fact, I do. Thanks for returning my call."

"Well, it's my lunch hour, and I'm on my way back to

work. I haven't got much time."

"Could we get together sometime for a few minutes?

Maybe after work?"

"What do you want to talk about?"

"Grant Jefferson."

"Oh, that prick. Did Crandall Booth hire you?'

"No," I said, not going into further explanations.

"Well, I don't know what I can tell you about him, but if

you'd like to get together for a drink, I get off at four-thirty."

"That should work. Where would you like to meet?"

"There's a place right near my work—Hughie's. You know

it?"

Well, well! Hughie's! I thought.

"Yeah, I know it," I said. "It's about two blocks from my

office."

"Small world!" he said.

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"Great! I'll see you at Hughie's at a little after four-thirty,

then. You can ask Bud, the bartender, to point me out to

you."

He laughed. "I was going to say the same. Maybe we

already know each other."

"Possibly," I said. "I think we met at Crandall Booth's last

get-together for the chorus."

"I'm afraid I wasn't paying much attention to anyone but

that asshole Jefferson. He's lucky I didn't kill him then and

there."

As opposed to later? I wondered.

We said our goodbyes and hung up, and I immediately

called Jonathan to tell him I might be a few minutes late

getting home.

* * * *

Hughie's nondescript black front was almost lost among its

equally nondescript neighbors except for the inevitable two or

three hustlers lounging around on the sidewalk, hoping to

catch a John before he made it into the competitive arena

inside. I idly wondered how many times I'd walked into the

place in the last several years.

Though Hughie's was what most people would describe as

a dive and you'd probably think a time or two before inviting

most of the clientele to meet your grandmother, I liked it. It

hadn't one single shred of pretension. What it was, was what

it was; and if you didn't like it, you were welcome to go

elsewhere.

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And it never changed. Never. Governments rose and fell,

planes crashed, wars were fought and either won or lost, the

stock market went about its business and so did Hughie's.

I got there about four-fifteen, before the place started to

fill up with hustlers and their prospective quickie-after-work

Johns. There were six or seven guys in the place, with Bud

holding sway behind the bar. As always, the minute he saw

me walk in the door, he went to the cooler to get out a

frosted mug, which he filled from the tap reserved for dark

beer. It was waiting for me by the time I reached the bar.

"How's it goin', Bud?" It never occurred to me to say

anything else. It had been a ritual greeting since my first time

in the bar Lord knows how many years ago, and since I

considered Hughie's to exist in something of a time warp, I

think part of me suspected that if I were to say anything else

it might create a tear in the space-time continuum.

"Pretty good, Dick. You?" Bud dutifully responded, thereby

assuring that all was well in the universal scheme of things.

"I'm supposed to meet a guy named Jerry Granville," I

said. "Can you give me a nod when he comes in?"

Taking the bill I handed him, he moved off to the till. He

didn't bother returning with the change, since it was another

given that I wouldn't want it.

One thing that can be said about Hughie's—it's sure a

friendly place, and you are guaranteed someone will come

over to inquire if you might be interested in a little

companionship. Sure enough, a nice-looking kid who looked

like he'd just come from a tryout for the role of Danny Zuko

in Grease, down to the skin-tight black T-shirt with the

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sleeves rolled up, came sauntering over to stand next to me,

leaning forward with his forearms on the edge of the bar, thus

displaying a nice set of biceps. I pretended to be preoccupied

with my beer, but I could feel his eyes on me until I turned

toward him.

"How's it goin'?" he asked, looking me up and down with

all the subtlety of a lion eyeing a gazelle as he slowly lifted his

beer to his mouth. Amazing how some guys can make lifting

a beer to their mouth almost like a sex act.

I noticed he had a small tattoo of a mouse on the inside of

his right wrist.

"Fine, thanks," I said trying to resist asking "You?" but it

didn't work. "You?"

"Better'n most," he said, looking directly into my eyes.

"I'm lookin' for a little action. Interested?"

Oh, yes! my crotch-voice said eagerly. Definitely. Yep. You

bet!

I wrestled it back into its cage and said, "Sorry, I'm

meeting someone."

He gave me a raised eyebrow. "You sure? You don't know

what you're missin'."

"I'm sure you're right," I said, "but unfortunately..."

He shrugged. "Your loss," he said. "See ya." And he moved

off toward the pool table where a newly-arrived fortysomething

business type in a three-piece suit was leaning

against the wall, trying to look inconspicuous.

A minute or so later, Bud gave me a heads-up, and I

looked into the mirror behind the bar to see Jerry Granville

entering. I recognized him from Booth's get-together, though

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I hadn't been sure I'd be able to. Nice looking in a roughhewn

sort of way, definitely butch. If he'd been dressed more

casually, I could have mistaken him for one of the hustlers.

I waved to get his attention, and he came directly over.

"Sure," he said as he came up. "I recognize you from

Booth's."

We shook hands as Bud brought over a bottle of Miller's

and put it in front of him.

"Jerry."

"Bud," Jerry replied, taking out his billfold and extracting a

five.

I grinned. "I see you're not a stranger to the place."

"You might say that. It's close to work, and I've been

coming in pretty regularly after work, now that I'm single

again."

I took a sip of my beer as Bud came back to lay Jerry's

change on the bar in front of him.

"Yeah," I said as Bud moved off, "I was sorry to hear you

and Tony broke up."

He shrugged. "Nothing lasts forever," he said, and I

immediately thought of myself and Jonathan and fervently

hoped he was wrong. "So, what did you want to talk about?"

"Exactly why were you so pissed at Grant Jefferson? From

what I understand, he made passes at everybody."

"I don't care who he made a pass at ... as long as it wasn't

Tony."

"How did you find out about it?"

He took a long swig of his beer and wiped the corner of his

mouth with a crooked index finger. "Tony told me," he said. "I

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told him to tell Grant to knock it off, or I'd do it myself, but

Grant kept it up."

I was puzzled and said so. "But why take it out on Tony by

breaking up with him? It doesn't sound like he did anything

wrong."

"Yeah? Well, that one Tuesday I went to the M.C.C. near

the end of the rehearsal to pick Tony up, and as I was going

into the building, I saw him going into the bathroom with

Grant right behind. I gave them a minute then walked in and

there they were at the urinal and Grant was all over Tony. I

went over and grabbed Grant and was about to slug him

when Tony grabbed my arm to keep me from it, and while I

was distracted, Grant took off. That's when I went upstairs

and the fight almost started."

"But you don't know that Tony had anything to do with

Grant's being 'all over' him. Did Tony look like he was

enjoying it?"

He paused a second then said "No, not exactly. But the

thing is, he let Grant do it!"

Well, I could see Jerry wasn't the kind of guy to let logic

stand in the way of a knee-jerk reaction.

"And less than a week later, Grant was dead," I pointed

out.

He had his beer halfway to his mouth, and he froze there

for an instant, staring at me.

"So, you're saying you think I killed that bastard?" he

asked.

"No, that's not what I'm saying. I'm merely pointing out

the facts."

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"Well, if I'd had a chance to get to him that night, I very

well might have. But if I was going to kill him, it wouldn't

have been with a fucking bomb." He was still looking at me,

as if trying to guess my reaction. Taking the delayed swig of

his beer, he put the bottle on the bar and said, "Look, I know

I've got a little problem with my temper every now and then.

But it's always like a firecracker going off—bam! and that's it.

I'd cooled down by the time we got home."

"But you still broke up with Tony," I observed.

He didn't say anything for a moment. "Actually, it was the

other way around. It was Tony who broke up with me. He

said he'd had it with my temper, and that my embarrassing

him in front of the chorus was the last straw."

"Any chance of your getting back together?" I asked.

He shrugged. "Maybe. We'll see. Tony says he won't even

consider it unless I take an anger management class."

"And will you?"

Another shrug. "I'm thinking about it. Like I said, we'll

see."

I glanced at my watch and saw it was getting close for the

time for me to head for home. But I had one more question.

"Can you think of anyone else who might have wanted to see

Grant dead badly enough to actually do it?"

He drained his beer, then said, "No, not really. I never had

all that much to do with the chorus or the guys who belong to

it, and all I know is what Tony'd tell me. Other than that, I

don't know anything at all about that creep's life. But I'm glad

someone had the guts to give him what he deserved."

So much for love thy neighbor, I thought.

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I finished my beer, thanked him for his time and left. I was

curious to see whether Marty had found evidence that Jerry's

temper might have ever gotten him into trouble with the law.

* * * *

I actually made it home shortly before Jonathan and

Joshua and had just fixed my evening manhattan when I

heard Jonathan's key in the lock. I quickly got a Coke, and a

small jelly glass for Joshua into which I put a couple ice cubes

and poured part of the soda. Juggling the can and two

glasses, I went into the living room to quickly set everything

down for our ritual group hug.

Jonathan looked a little tired, so I volunteered Joshua and

myself to make dinner. I wasn't being noble—just knew we

were having knackwurst—"fat hot dogs," as Joshua called

them—and sauerkraut, neither of which relied too heavily on

culinary skills. Joshua loved hot dogs in any form, but I was a

little surprised the first time we had sauerkraut and found he

loved that, too. Actually, we were very lucky in that there

were very few things he didn't like, liver and mushrooms

being the notable exceptions. But since I couldn't stand them

either, it wasn't much of a problem. Jonathan, who loved

them both, was outnumbered two to one and had to settle for

ordering them when we went out to eat.

I mentioned during dinner that I wanted to try to reach

Bernie Niles at home as soon after we finished eating as

possible.

"That's fine," Jonathan said. "Joshua and I'll make the

dessert while you're doing that."

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Having no idea what he was talking about, I asked, "What

dessert?"

"Uncle Jonathan said we could make fruit whip!" Joshua

answered happily. "I like fruit whip!"

I did, too, actually, though we'd not had it in a while. It

was simplicity itself—a can of fruit cocktail with the syrup

drained off, then mixed with a small tub of Cool Whip.

So, while they set out on their dessert adventures, which I

rightly suspected would not be without its perils—few things

involving an enthusiastic five-year-old boy are—I went into

the living room to call Bernie Niles.

The phone was picked up on the third ring by a young and

pleasant-sounding male voice.

"Niles residence."

"Is Bernie Niles in?"

"I'll get him for you." I heard the rustle as the mouthpiece

was covered by a hand, followed by a muffled "Bernie, it's for

you." A moment later, the hand came off the receiver and

there was some sort of exchange I didn't catch. Then:

"Hello?"

"Mister Niles, this is Dick Hardesty calling. I've been trying

to reach you."

"Oh. Yes. Well, I've been too busy to return the call." The

tone was not saying the same thing as the words.

I ignored it. "I understand."

"What do you want?" Not exactly hostile, but several steps

from warm and friendly.

"I wanted to talk to you about Grant Jefferson," I said.

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There was not a moment's pause before: "I suspected that

was why you were calling. I assume he's gotten himself into

some sort of trouble, but my interest in Grant ceased the

instant he left Atlanta and there is absolutely nothing I can

tell you."

"I take it you aren't aware he's dead." Maybe I could have

eased into it better, but...

There was a definite pause this time. Then: "I'm sorry to

hear that."

That's it? a mind-voice asked. You're "sorry to hear that?"

I waited a moment for him to add something more, and

when he didn't, I said, "Yes. He was murdered."

"Crandall Booth, I assume?"

A natural assumption, I suppose, but...

"I don't know yet," I said. "I'm calling you for any

information you may have on the man Grant was with before

you came to his rescue—Robert Smith."

"Robert Smith?"

"The man you sent to jail after Grant tipped you off that he

was a con man," I said, wondering if everyone automatically

assumed I was an idiot.

"Oh. Yes. What about him?"

I could tell from the tone of his voice that he'd thrown his

guard up.

"Has he contacted you to ask about Grant?"

"No. Why should he?"

I decided the fact that he didn't point out Smith was in jail

indicated pretty strongly that he knew he wasn't.

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"It seemed only logical that Smith might be holding

something of a grudge against both you and Grant—though

probably more against Grant for alerting you to the scam—

and that he might have contacted you to find out where Grant

was."

"No, he did not," he said in a tone which I clearly read as

"Yes, he did."

I deliberately paused before saying, "Ah ... okay. That's

good to know, because I work closely with the police and

mentioned that I was going to be calling you. If they were to

question you directly and find out otherwise, you could be

charged with abetting a murderer."

I wasn't sure that was true but counted on his not knowing

if it were, either.

"You would report me to the police?" he asked, coldly but

with a tinge of anxiety.

"Well, this is primarily a police murder investigation," I

said, "I'm merely conducting a parallel investigation and if I

was curious enough to want to call you, it would be surprising

if the police might not consider it also. However, if you were

honest with me, I might be able to convince them it wouldn't

be necessary."

There was a deep sigh. "All right, so Smith did call me,

demanding to talk to Grant. When I told him Grant had

moved, he didn't believe me and in effect threatened my life

if I didn't tell him where Grant was. So I did. I didn't have

Grant's address, just Crandall's business address. What he

intended to do with the information, or if he did anything at

all, I have no way of knowing."

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"Well, I'd say Grant's ending up dead might be a clue."

"A clue, yes, but not proof. It's quite a leap from one to

the other."

He was right.

"What can you tell me about Smith?" I asked.

"I suppose I should have spotted him for what he was

when I first saw him. In retrospect, he was the perfect image

of a con man. Well-groomed, well-mannered, well-spoken. An

air of authority and confidence—the kind of man who could

blend in anywhere."

"Exactly how did you meet him?" I asked.

"I was in New York for a meeting of east coast Porsche

dealers at the Waldorf. One day when I had some free time I

attended an art auction and bid on a few pieces, though I

didn't get them. That evening, upon returning to the hotel, I

stopped in at Sir Harry's for a drink. The next thing I knew,

Grant was sitting beside me.

"One hardly thinks of the Waldorf as a pick-up spot, so,

other than noticing he was a very attractive young man and

obviously gay, I didn't think much about it. Then he asked if

he hadn't seen me earlier at the Doyles' auction. I said yes,

and we got into a conversation. I asked why he'd been there,

and he said his employer was an art dealer, etc. He

mentioned the dealer specialized in exactly the type of pieces

I'd bid on, which got my interest. I should have realized I was

being set up even then.

"I invited Grant to my room to talk further..."

Riiight, I thought.

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"...and he suggested I meet his employer. Well, I took the

bait and the rest, as they say, is history.

"When they came down to Atlanta to show me a couple of

pieces Smith thought I'd be interested in, Grant called me

from their hotel, sounding really distraught. When I asked

him what was wrong he blurted out that Smith was a fraud

and was out to scam me. He then went on to give me a long

story of abuse at Smith's hands and said he wanted

desperately to get away from him but had nowhere to go.

"I told him he was welcome to stay with me—it was the

least I could do for his having saved me a great deal of

money—and immediately called the police. Smith was

arrested that same evening and subsequently went to jail.

Grant was my house guest until Crandall Booth came to

town."

House guest, huh. I could practically see him frantically

thumbing through his copy of The Big Book of Euphemisms.

"And you haven't heard from Smith since you told him

where Grant was?" I asked.

"No, and I am hoping I never do."

"Do you remember exactly when he called?"

There was a pause before: "I can't recall the exact date,

but approximately three weeks ago."

"Around the twentieth of the month?" I asked.

"Somewhere around there, yes, but I honestly don't recall

if it was before or after. Why does it matter?"

"Because," I said, "Grant was killed on the twentieth, and I

wanted to know if Smith could have been here in town when

it happened."

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Another pause, then: "I'm sorry, I really can't recall. As I

say, I'm sure it was around that time, but..."

"Well, if you do remember, I'd appreciate your giving me a

call."

"I'll do that," he said, lying through his teeth. "And can I

now assume I don't have to expect a call from the police?"

"I'll tell them what you told me," I said. "But while I can

hope they'll find the information sufficient, I have no way of

guaranteeing it."

"So, in other words, I've wasted my time here," he said,

obviously displeased.

"I'd certainly hope not," I said. "I know they're

investigating several other leads and perhaps one of them will

lead to something. I'd imagine the only reason they may have

to contact you would be in regard to the timing of Smith's call

to you."

Niles sighed deeply. "If I can't remember for you, I won't

be able to remember for them."

"I understand," I said, "and I really hope it won't be

necessary. Which is why, if you do recall something, I'd

appreciate your contacting me."

"Very well. Now, I really have things to do, so..."

I started to say "Thank you for your time," but he hung up

before I reached your.

When I returned to the kitchen, I found our 'simple

dessert' had turned into a major project. Joshua was seated

at the table in front of a small plate with more than a dozen

maraschino cherry stems neatly circled around the inner

edge.

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"Joshua thought there weren't enough cherries in the

mixed fruit," Jonathan explained. "He thought it would be a

good idea to add some of your manhattan cherries."

Indicating the plate of stems, he added, "He volunteered to

remove the stems. I think two or three of the cherries

actually made their way into the dessert. The rest of them

mysteriously disappeared while I wasn't looking."

"Well," I said in Joshua's defense, "I suspect the Cherry

Fairy ate them."

Joshua snickered and nodded.

* * * *

Friday came and went quickly, marked only by a call to

Marty to fill him in on my conversation with Bernie Niles.

"Most interesting," Marty said. "If Smith was in town at the

time of Jefferson's death, I'd say he might be worth talking

to."

"If he was in town, if he still is and if you can find him," I

said.

"True," he replied. "But we'll definitely keep our eyes and

ears open. And we should probably give Niles a call, too, to

see if we can jog his memory on exactly when Smith called

him. That's the key."

"I agree," I said, "but I really think if he remembered he'd

have told me."

"Doesn't hurt to check," Marty said.

"Good luck!"

* * * *

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The weekend went by equally fast, though without the

pressures of trying to figure out who blew up Grant Jefferson.

Our friends Bob and Mario called inviting us to an impromptu

barbecue at their place on Sunday afternoon, and the whole

gang was able to get together, which is always a pleasure.

Everyone was doing well, and while nothing was said about

the status of Jake's AIDS, he appeared to be healthy as a

horse.

Joshua always loved getting together with all his "uncles"

because of the fuss they always made over him, though in a

"big boy" way, which delighted him.

* * * *

Jonathan was a little later than usual getting home from

practice the following Tuesday, and I was beginning to

wonder where he was when I heard the key in the lock.

"Sorry," he said quietly so as not to wake Joshua.

I got up from the couch as he came across the room for a

hug.

"A bunch of us got to talking after the rehearsal. The

rumors are still so thick you can walk on them."

I sighed, taking his hand and sitting down beside him on

the couch. "I'd hoped they'd be dying down by now. Anything

special?"

"Not really. Everybody's still trying to figure out who killed

Grant. Some guys are still sure it was someone from the

chorus, and wondering if the guy next to you might be a

murderer doesn't do much for morale. But the consensus

seems to be that it was Mister Booth, and that he'll be

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arrested and then he'll go to jail for murder and won't be able

to support the chorus and the Chicago trip will be cancelled

and the chorus will have to break up and..."

"Nothing like jumping on your horse and galloping off in all

directions," I said.

He sighed and squeezed my hand. "You're right. I think

everybody had assumed that, with Grant dead, everything

would get back to normal. But it hasn't, and now with all

these rumors and speculations, it's really hard to concentrate

on the music. And we've got to be good for the concert."

He shifted his body to turn to look at me. "So, that's why

you have to find out who killed Grant soon, even if it is Mister

Booth. At least then, what's going to happen to the chorus

will happen and we can all get on with our lives. But this

way..."

"I understand," I said, "and no one wants me to find who

killed Grant than me. I'm doing the best I can."

He smiled. "I know you are. And you'll find him, I know."

* * * *

Wednesday morning I got a call from Marty.

"Got some news for you on the Jefferson case," he said.

"Two things, actually. First, I checked on that guy Jerry

Granville. No record. Second, we found out some more

background on your Robert Smith. His real name is Clarence

Farnsworth—no wonder he turned to a life of crime. Anyway,

it turns out he has quite a rap sheet in New York. In addition

to a string of arrests for various scams he's had two arrests

for assault—both dropped when the victims withdrew the

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charges. Definitely a real con artist with a mean streak. They

extradited him to New York after his arrest in Atlanta, but he

was released from jail a month ago."

"But no word on whether he might have come here after

his release?"

"Nope. Nobody has any idea where he is. He showed up for

his first appointment with his parole officer after he got out,

then that was it. Nobody's seen or heard from him since,

other than that call to Niles."

"Thanks, Marty. As always, I appreciate your keeping me

in the loop."

"Works both ways," he said.

With promises to keep in touch and try to get together for

lunch one day soon, we hung up.

* * * *

And suddenly the chorus's concert was less than two

weeks away, and the tension over Grant's disruptions and

death were gradually being replaced by the tension of the

approaching performance. Jonathan remained outwardly

calm, but I could sense his excitement and was truly happy

for him.

As for finding out who killed Grant—well, lots of wheelspinning

but not much progress. Nothing had been heard of

or from Smith. I must have contacted at least forty of the fifty

members of the chorus, following every rumor-dipped lead to

its inevitable dead end or brick wall. Grant supposedly had a

little clique of sycophants, but I'd certainly never know it from

talking to them. While quite a few were, at best, neutral

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toward him, there were more who had some real or imagined

grudge against him, and the more stories I heard about his

arrogance the more I wished Jerry Granville had at least

managed to land a few punches before he was ordered out.

But as for anything I truly could consider as being a lead to

a specific motive or an individual who might actually have

killed him, there was nothing.

[Back to Table of Contents]

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CHAPTER EIGHT

So, when I got a call Tuesday at work from Arnold Glick,

the very wealthy former client who lived in Briarwood fairly

close to Crandall Booth, asking if I could look into something

for him, I agreed to at least talk with him. I normally prefer

to work on only one case at a time, but there simply wasn't

enough material to keep the Grant Jefferson flame going

twenty-four hours a day. And maybe a slight step away for a

moment might be a good thing.

Arnold and his wife Iris ran the Model Men Agency, which

had for a time doubled as a high-end male escort service. Our

friend Phil had made the transition from hustler to the top

model for Spartan Briefs through Model Men. I really liked

both Arnold and Iris and was happy to hear from them.

Because Arnold didn't want to go into detail over the

phone, I accepted their invitation for lunch. As I drove toward

Briarwood, I found myself looking forward to the visit with

pleasure—and especially to one of Johnnie-Mae's lunches.

Johnnie-Mae was the Glicks' cook-cum-housekeeper, and I

had long ago determined that when I made my first ten

million dollars, I would hire Johnnie-Mae away from them.

Since that looked to be a few hundred years down the road, I

had to be satisfied with looking forward to lunch.

Passing the Birchwood Country Club, I spotted their

mansion two blocks away. It was hard to miss, even among

the mini-palaces surrounding it. I pulled into the driveway

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and drove past the house to the large parking area beside the

fenced-in expanse of the back yard and pool.

It was cool enough for a light jacket, so I assumed we'd

not be eating by the pool and went around to the front door,

where I rang the bell beside the massive double doors. A

moment later, the left side opened to reveal Iris Glick in all

her toreador-panted glory. She was wearing a scoop-necked

black I-don't-know-what-they're-called (they look like a longsleeved

T-shirt), a wide belt with a huge gold buckle and

spiked heels. Her hair was pulled back into a long ponytail.

Iris was waging a global-scale war against aging, and she was

damned if she was going to lose.

"Dick!" she exclaimed, stepping quickly forward for a hug.

"It's so good to see you! It's been far, far too long!"

I'd forgotten how good she always smelled. She used

cologne sparingly, but to maximum effect.

"It has that," I agreed as she stepped back to allow me to

enter the cavernous marble foyer. Following her to the

staccato click of her heels on the marble into the ballroomsized

living room, I took the seat she indicated near the

fireplace, which was flanked by floor-to-ceiling windows

looking out over the green expanses of the country club's golf

course.

"Arnold is on the phone, I'm afraid," she said by way of

explaining her husband's absence, "but he'll be with us in a

moment."

I looked up as Johnnie-Mae appeared in the arched entry

to the dining room. She smiled and said, "May I get you

something, Mister Hardesty?"

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I returned the smile. "Thank you, no, Mrs. Dabbs." I

always made it a point to call her Mrs. Dabbs as a gesture of

respect, which she richly deserved. "It's good to see you," I

added.

"And you, Mister Hardesty," she said. "Would you like me

to take your jacket?"

I got up to take it off and hand it to her with thanks. She

smiled then, looking at Iris, said, "Lunch will be ready

shortly." And with that she turned and disappeared in the

direction of the kitchen.

Iris and I small-talked for a few minutes while we waited

for Arnold, carefully avoiding the subject of the case I'd

originally handled for them. The Model Men Agency, minus its

male escort branch, was apparently doing very well and still

represented Phil, even though he was currently under an

exclusive contract with Spartan Briefs. She and Arnold had, I

learned, been able to do a bit of traveling and indulge a newly

found interest in art collecting. She pointed to a lighted

display case with several small Etruscan statues.

"We're specializing in Etruscan art," she explained.

Well, if anyone could afford to do it, it was the Glicks. I

nodded appreciatively.

I was getting up from my chair to take a closer look when

Arnold Glick entered the room, dapper as ever in smoking

jacket and ascot. I really didn't know if this was how

everyone in "the other half" lived, but both Iris and Arnold

pulled their version of it off very well.

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Hastening across the room to shake hands, he said, "I ran

into Johnnie-Mae in the hall. She says lunch is ready. Shall we

go into the breakfast room?"

Iris got up to join her husband, and we moved through the

dining room to the solarium, which like the living room

overlooked the golf course. One end was open to the kitchen

and set up as a breakfast room. We sat down to mimosas and

plates of quartered cantaloupe surrounded by enormous

strawberries sprinkled with powdered sugar. The fruit was

followed by a fantastic quiche.

And through it all, Johnnie-Mae moved—glided—removing

the fruit plates and replacing them with the quiche in one

smooth gesture. My admiration for the woman, and my

amazement to think that some people could actually afford to

live like this, continued to grow.

Dessert was a slice of freshly baked banana creme pie. I

momentarily pondered asking the Glicks—or maybe Johnnie-

Mae—if they would like to adopt me.

After Johnnie-Mae had taken away the dessert plates and

accepted my heartfelt compliments with a pleased smile, we

remained at the table, drinking coffee. Arnold lit up a cigar,

first offering me one, which I declined.

"So," he said, after the elaborate lighting process, "I

suppose we should get to the matter at hand. I'd like you to

check into someone for me. I have no real reason to doubt

him, but there is a good deal of money involved, and I always

believe in the old better-safe-than-sorry rule."

"I'll be glad to," I said. "Give me the name and whatever

information you have."

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Arnold set his cigar aside long enough to take a sip of

coffee, replacing his cup on the saucer before continuing.

"His name is Kenneth Johnson, and he's a dealer in

antiquities we met during our last trip to New York."

Tell me I didn't hear that, I groaned inwardly.

"At an auction?" I asked, and Arnold raised an eyebrow.

"Ah, I gather Iris has already told you.." He looked at his

wife, whose face reflected her puzzlement.

"No, she didn't," I said. "It was an out-of-left-field

assumption. I understand you've taken up collecting art."

"Well, dabbling would be a more accurate description. I

became interested in Etruscan art many years ago through a

collector I knew in New York, but I was always too busy to do

anything about it. Then last year we went to Italy, and Iris

became as fascinated with it as I've always been.

"When we were in New York last month, they were having

an auction of Etruscan works at the William Doyles

Galleries..." He must have read the expression on my face,

because he paused and added, "You're familiar with them?"

I merely nodded. Grant Jefferson had picked up Bernie

Niles after Niles had attended an auction at the Doyles

Galleries.

"Ah," he said, then continued talking. "We picked up a

small piece Iris had her eye on, and as we were leaving, we

were approached by a gentleman who complimented us on

our purchase and introduced himself as a private dealer of

antiquities, one of his specialties being the Etruscan period.

He said he served many collectors, and I asked if he might

know my colleague, Theodore Altgeld, who had an extensive

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collection of Etruscan art and who had, sadly, recently died.

He said Altgeld had been a client, for whom he had obtained a

number of pieces.

"We stood talking for a while, and then he invited us to

join him for a drink, but we were a bit pressed for time and

had to decline. We did agree to get together for lunch the

next day. He told us he was awaiting the arrival of some

pieces he'd been commissioned to handle for the estate of an

Italian nobleman and said he'd be happy to show them to us

if we might be interested. Naturally, we were."

Johnnie-Mae appeared with more coffee. I was riveted to

Arnold's story because, while it was unlikely that Robert

Smith and Kenneth Johnson were the same man, there were

too many coincidences to rule out the possibility.

I said nothing, waiting for Arnold to continue, which he did

after taking another sip of his coffee.

"So, we had a very pleasant lunch. He said he was

currently working with an Italian nobleman's heirs to handle

the sale of some the family's collection and assured us that,

while the shipment he was waiting for had not yet arrived, it

contained some things he was sure we could appreciate as

collectors. We'd told him we were new to collecting, but he

was very flattering." He paused and gave me a raised

eyebrow. "I'm always a bit suspicious of people who are very

flattering."

"And that raised a red flag?" I asked.

He shook his head. "None. He appears to be totally above

board. He even had a letter of recommendation from

Theodore Altgeld."

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"So, where did the conversation end up?" I asked.

Iris spoke for the first time. "Well," she said, picking up the

story, "we were returning home the next day, so we gave him

our address and he wrote shortly thereafter to tell us the

shipment was on its way and send us a few photos of some

really beautiful pieces. We indicated an interest in one and

agreed to take a closer look at it."

"So, he brought it to you?"

Arnold chuckled. "Not immediately. He told us he had a

business trip planned and could stop here with it on his way

to Los Angeles."

"And did he ask for payment in advance?" I asked.

"Only a reasonable amount to cover the fees for bringing it

into the country. He was quite up front in telling us that it

involved a, shall we say, somewhat circuitous route to

shortcut the usual bureaucratic red tape and delays. He

assured us this is common practice in the art world and, while

perhaps not exactly by the book, not illegal.

"We agreed—a bit reluctantly, I must admit—and wired

him the money. He called within a week saying the piece had

arrived and that he would be passing through here on a

business trip and would be happy to deliver it to us in person.

We thought that was very kind of him."

I couldn't resist interrupting. "When, exactly, was this?"

The Glicks looked at one another as if for verification.

"Sometime around the middle of last month," Arnold said,

obviously somewhat puzzled. "Why do you ask?"

Not wanting to go into a lengthy explanation at this point,

nor feeling I could ask him for a more specific date without

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having to get into one, I merely said, "Sorry, it's nothing. I

was just curious."

He didn't look overly convinced, but let Iris continue

without further comment.

"He called when he arrived in town and we invited him to

dinner," she said. "He brought with him the small head you

may have noticed in the display cabinet."

"And you checked its authenticity, I assume?" I asked.

Arnold nodded. "Oh, yes! We took it up to Mountjoy to

have it examined by Randolph Gunderson, the head of the

Antiquities Department, who verified its authenticity. Johnson

showed his good faith in leaving it with us, and we wired him

the remainder of the money immediately upon getting

verification.

"Randolph was a bit concerned that we didn't have certain

paperwork, but Johnson had told us that, since it had been in

the private collection of an old Italian family for generations

and the Italian government was not involved, there really

were no papers. He assured us he would be happy to have

the former owner provide us with whatever verification we felt

we might need as to its history and line of possession. He

repeated that this was a common, if not strictly textbook,

procedure.

"At any rate, we were and are delighted with it. He

contacted us recently, saying he had acquired a few more

pieces he was sure we would like, and that he would be

happy to stop by here on his next business trip this coming

Saturday."

"And what would you like me to do for you?"

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"I'm quite sure that Mister Johnson is legitimate—the letter

of referral from Theodore Altgeld convinced me of that, and

he gave us a couple of references that checked out. But still,

if we're to enter into any sort of long-term relationship with

this man, I've been around a bit too long not to want to cover

all my bets."

"We'd already planned to have a few friends over for

dinner on Saturday," Iris said, "and since your profession

necessitates your being a keen judge of character, we

thought that if you would like to join us you might be able to

form some objective insights. Your partner is, of course, also

invited—we'd love to meet him."

I hadn't been in contact with the Glicks since Jonathan

entered my life, but I knew they probably had heard about

him from Phil.

"That's very kind of you. And I'm sure Jonathan will be

delighted to meet you, as well. We'll have to find a babysitter,

but that shouldn't be a problem."

Iris smiled warmly. "Yes," she said, "Phil told us you have

a delightful young ... charge." She didn't know what word to

use and, frankly, neither did I.

"Jonathan's nephew," I explained. "He has legal custody of

Joshua."

"Ah. Well, we admire you both for taking on such a

daunting challenge."

I laughed. "Daunting's an excellent word for it."

"So, you'll come to dinner?" Arnold asked.

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"Well, . definitely will," I said, "and I'm sure we can find

someone to look after Joshua for a few hours. May I let you

know as soon as I find out?"

"Surely," Iris said.

"And knowing Jonathan, the minute I mention having

dinner in Briarwood, he's going to want to run out and rent a

tuxedo."

"Please assure him that won't be necessary," Iris said,

laughing. "Casual is fine."

Since it appeared our business was concluded, I got up.

"Well, then, I look forward to Saturday."

"About seven?" Iris had risen when I did. "We'll eat around

eight or so."

I walked over to Arnold, who seemed to be having a bit of

a problem getting up. He plopped back down and extended

his hand.

"Damned arthritic knee!" he said as we shook hands.

"Don't get old, Dick. It's not fun."

"But infinitely better than the alternative," Iris reminded

him, and they exchanged smiles.

Walking me to the entrance to the living room, she said,

"Johnnie-Mae will show you out."

"That's quite all right." I sensed that wanted to get back to

Arnold. Besides, the front door was in plain sight. I smiled at

her as I took her outstretched hands. "I think I know my way

by now."

She laid a hand on my arm. "Of course, you do," she said,

"but Johnnie-Mae has your jacket ... and a little something for

you to take home."

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A moment later, Johnnie-Mae appeared carrying my jacket

in one hand and what I assumed to be a cake box in the

other. Iris gave me a hug and a peck on the cheek then

returned to her husband.

"I understand you have a young one at home now,"

Johnnie-Mae said with a warm smile. Whether she meant

Jonathan or Joshua I wasn't quite sure, but assumed the

latter. "I thought he and your friend might like to have a

piece of pie for dinner—and there's enough for you, too, if

you won't mind having banana creme pie twice in one day."

I wanted to hug her but resisted. That might be crossing

some sort of line—not for me, but for her. "Thank you, Mrs.

Dabbs," I said sincerely. "I do wish I could hire you away

from the Glicks!"

She gave me a broad smile. "How would they get along

without me?" she asked, and I grinned.

* * * *

On the ride home, I thought over this whole Robert

Smith/Kenneth Johnson/Clarence Farnsworth thing. I knew

nothing about the art world or art auctions, but wondered

how common it was to be approached by someone claiming to

be an art dealer immediately after leaving an auction. It was

also highly unlikely that two scammers would be working the

same auction house.

No, there were too many coincidences at work here, the

timing of Johnson's first visit and Grant Jefferson's murder

being prime among them. The main problem was there was

no way in hell Johnson (Smith/Farnsworth?) could possibly

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have known, when he zeroed in on the Glicks after the

auction, that they lived in the same town as Grant, even if he

knew where Grant was living.

Admittedly, working a scam on the wealthy, who might be

expected to be a little more worldly wise than your average

Joe, required considerable skill and inventiveness, but the

rewards were also proportionately greater. I was pretty sure

the "letter of referral" Johnson produced from the

conveniently dead famous art collector—whose name Arnold

had brought up in the first place—would be relatively easy to

fake, as would other glowing references. But I had to admire

the speed with which he produced the letter—the day after

he'd met the Glicks—was impressive. However, it was quite

possible Johnson had a number of similar referrals from wellknown

collectors on hand.

That the Etruscan head Johnson sold the Glicks was

apparently authentic could have been a well-baited hook to

land the Glicks as regular customers. He probably knew they

would have been foolish not to want verification of

authenticity. But having taken the bait, they would be far

quicker to accept anything else Johnson wanted to foist off on

them, which was undoubtedly the purpose of his upcoming

visit.

Exactly how he might have come by an authentic piece of

Etruscan statuary I couldn't guess. Outright theft? If he got it

to the Glicks fast enough, there probably wouldn't have been

time for it to have appeared on any stolen property lists. The

black market? The steady and possibly illegal stream of

undocumented artifacts into the country was well known. And

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scammers often relied on the equally well-known tendency of

people to look the other way when they don't want to see

something, or think it might be to their advantage not to see.

Well, I thought, Saturday should be an interesting day.

* * * *

I waited until after Jonathan had returned from chorus

practice before telling him about the invitation; I hadn't

wanted to mention it while Joshua was still up because I

didn't want to get into the diplomatic minefield of having to

explain to him why he couldn't go with us. As I'd anticipated,

Jonathan was enthralled by the prospect of going to dinner in

Briarwood, and I'm sure only my immediately stressing that it

would be very casual kept him from asking about tuxedo

rentals, although not from insisting we had to go out and buy

new clothes for the occasion.

His what-to-wear panic segued into concerns over his selfperceived

lack of knowledge of social etiquette.

"How will I know which fork to use? I don't want to

embarrass you!"

I hugged him. "The Glicks don't strike me as the kind of

people who care much about what fork to use," I said. "And

you could never embarrass me."

"We have to call Craig right away to see if he can babysit."

Craig was Craig Richman, the seventeen-year-old gay son

of police lieutenant Mark Richman, who considered us to be

positive role models for his son.

"I already did, and he can't," I said. "He's got a date."

"Do you suppose we could ask Tim and Phil?"

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"We could, except that Phil will be out of town this

weekend on a photo shoot, remember? You were the one who

told me after you talked to them last week. And I don't know

if Tim would be up to handling Joshua alone."

"He's not a herd of wild buffalo. He's one five-year-old

boy."

"Same difference," I observed and received a rolledeyeball

response.

"I could ask Eric if he might be willing to do it," Jonathan

volunteered.

"Uh, I'm not quite sure Joshua would like that idea," I said.

"He's still a little jealous of Eric for taking up so much of your

time."

He looked at me. "Eric's not taking up my time, the chorus

is."

"Yes, but Eric is in the chorus with you, and in five-yearold

logic, it adds up to the same thing."

He sighed. "Yeah, I suppose you're right. But he does

seem to be warming up to him."

"I know, but I don't think he's quite ready yet."

"Well, we could at least ask Tim," he suggested.

"Yeah, we could."

He immediately got up and went to the phone.

* * * *

By the time Saturday evening arrived, we were both in the

mood for a little relaxation. With the chorus concert a slightly

more than a week away, there was a general concert runthrough

on Saturday afternoon. With his class on Wednesday,

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rehearsals on Tuesday, Friday and Saturday, that left

Jonathan with only Monday and Thursday night at home. And

Rothenberger had decided the tenor section needed a little

more practice on a couple of the songs and called a special

meeting at his home for Sunday evening.

Busy week.

I'd not been totally idle myself. Aside from Joshua duty,

which wasn't really all that bad—I think I was finally getting

the hang of this surrogate-parent thing—I had tried to check

out Kenneth Johnson with little success. The Glicks really

knew very little about the man, and checking the Manhattanand-

boroughs phone books for a guy named Kenneth Johnson

was, as I had known it would be, an exercise in total futility.

On the outside chance that, if he was legit, he might have

a listing under "Art Dealers," I checked all the books a second

time. There were two Kenneth Johnsons—one a Kenneth T.—

one in Queens and one in Manhattan. I even tried calling to

see if either of them had sold an Etruscan head to the Glicks,

but no luck. There was no answer at all at Kenneth T.

Johnson, and I got a recording on the other number saying he

was on a business trip and would not return until the first of

next month.

Well, I'd see if I could pin anything down at dinner.

* * * *

We took Joshua over to Tim's shortly after five with the

equivalent of a small moving van full of books, games and

toys, though we knew he'd probably spend much of his time

watching the fish in their large aquarium. Tim, bless his heart,

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realizing that Jonathan and I had not had a night by ourselves

in a very, very long time, suggested that we let Joshua do a

sleep-over, which Joshua (not to mention Jonathan and I)

thought was a great idea. Joshua considered it to be further

evidence of his almost-grown-up status.

We returned home long enough to change clothes—I had,

with a great deal of effort, convinced Jonathan we really

didn't need to buy new clothes for one dinner party. On

realizing we were totally alone with no threat of a five-yearold

boy wandering in on us, we gave in to a moment of erotic

spontaneous combustion on the living room floor. (Come on,

don't pretend you haven't done it—or at least thought about

it.)

* * * *

We followed a taxi the last three blocks to the Glicks', and

were surprised to see it pull into the drive ahead of us. I

pulled over in front of the house until the cab disgorged its

passenger, a well-dressed forty-something in a business suit.

"See?" Jonathan said accusingly. "I knew we should have

dressed up!"

When the cab backed out into the street, I pulled into the

drive and headed toward the parking area in the rear. The

man was at the massive double front doors ringing the bell as

we passed him. He didn't look at us.

"I wonder who he is?" Jonathan wondered.

"I'd be willing to bet that's Kenneth Johnson, Boy Art

Dealer." I hadn't gone into detail as to the reason we'd been

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invited to dinner, and Jonathan had been too excited to ask.

He gave me a strange look but said nothing.

There were two cars I didn't recognize in the parking area,

and we pulled up next to a late-model Lincoln. As we got out

of the car, I took one of the packets of moist towelettes we

kept for Joshua from the glove compartment and carefully

wiped off each of the door handles, except for the driver's

door, and the area around them. Jonathan gave me a very

strange look.

"Johnson—assuming it was him—arrived in a cab," I

explained. "I think it would be nice if we offered him a ride

home."

"And you want to play with your fingerprint kit, don't you?"

He knew me too well.

"Can you think of a better way of getting his prints? They

might tell us exactly who this guy is."

He shrugged. "You're the detective. What if we don't give

him a ride?"

"Then we'll have clean door handles," I said, opening the

driver's door and putting the used towelette in the plastic

garbage bag I kept under the front seat.

I'm sure we could have gone in through the pool area, but

I wanted to give Jonathan the full tour so we walked around

to the front and rang the bell. Almost immediately the left

half of the double doors opened, revealing Johnnie-Mae in a

formal maid's uniform complete with a starched white apron.

She smiled.

"Good evening, Mister Hardesty."

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"Good evening, Mrs. Dabbs. I don't think you've met my

partner, Jonathan Quinlan."

She turned her smile on Jonathan. "Welcome, Mister

Quinlan. The Glicks are expecting you."

She stepped back a bit to allow us to enter.

"I wanted to thank you for the pie, Mrs. Dabbs," Jonathan

said. "It was the best banana creme pie I've ever had in my

whole life!"

"I'm glad you enjoyed it." She beamed and walked us to

the living room.

Iris, standing near the massive fireplace with the man from

the taxi talking with a seated couple, saw us approaching.

"Ah, there you are!" she said brightly, quickly excusing

herself to come over to greet us. She grasped me by both

arms and leaned forward to give me a cheek-peck then

turned to Jonathan.

"And you must be Dick's other half!" she said, extending

her hand, which Jonathan took with a rather shy smile.

"Iris Glick, this is Jonathan Quinlan," I said, feeling rather

like a character in one of Oscar Wilde's plays.

"It's so good to meet you, Jonathan," she said warmly.

"I'm so glad Dick finally settled down." Taking Jonathan's

elbow, she propelled us toward the others. "Everyone," she

called, "I'd like you to meet Dick and Jonathan."

Everyone rose except the only other woman in the room,

and introductions were made. In addition to Iris and Arnold,

the two other couples were a mid-forties Stella and Ernest

Conrad, a sixty-ish Porter Meade and his forty-something

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partner Hunter Pyle and the reason we were there: Kenneth

Johnson.

In his early-to-mid forties, Johnson bore a slight

resemblance to the actor Dirk Bogarde, and I detected a very

slight accent, though its origin was hard to pin down.

After the requisite exchange of introductory pleasantries,

we settled in. With Johnnie-Mae busy in the kitchen, Arnold

took our drink orders and went to a small portable bar in one

corner of the vast room to fill them.

Porter Meade, I learned, was a psychiatrist who ran a clinic

for disturbed children and teens; his partner was a podiatrist.

Ernest Conrad was an investment banker and his wife

apparently devoted most of her time to charitable activities. I

already knew Johnson's occupation.

I was pleased to note that Stella Conrad, on learning of

Jonathan's interest and expertise in horticulture, paid a great

deal of attention to him and mentioned she would be

delighted if he might consider coming over one evening to

give her some advice on landscaping their newly built home. I

could tell he was both flattered and delighted, and as I

watched him being charmingly at ease with her—even giving

her a card from Evergreen, where he worked—I flashed back

to the day I first saw him, a skinny, gawky kid hitting on me

in Hughie's bar. The world, it was, indeed, a-changin.'

It was Johnson who asked what line of work I was in, and

he didn't flinch when I said I was a private investigator.

"That's most interesting," he said. "Are you working on

anything at the moment?"

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Since he had opened the door, I couldn't resist stepping

through. "A murder case, yes."

"Really?" Stella Conrad said, leaning forward in her chair.

"How exciting! I love detective stories. Who was the victim,

and how was he killed?"

"He was an acquaintance of Jonathan's in the Gay Men's

Chorus," I said. "He died when someone planted a bomb in

his car." While I addressed my answer to her, I kept Johnson

in my peripheral vision. There was no discernible reaction.

"We read about that!" Hunter Pyle said. "Terrible way to

die."

"But quick," his partner observed.

"So, how is the investigation going, if you can talk about

it," Stella's husband Ernest asked. "Any prime suspects?"

I laughed. "Too many, I'm afraid. The victim wasn't exactly

in line for a Mister Nice Guy award."

At this point, Johnnie-Mae appeared in the doorway to

announce that dinner was ready, and the conversation paused

as we all moved into the dining room.

* * * *

The subject of Johnson's being an art dealer had been

mentioned several times, and I had to admit I was impressed

that he didn't immediately jump in and start spreading his net

for new customers. I suspected that, like any good fisherman,

he had the patience to wait until the fish came to him.

Ernest Conrad broached the subject as Johnnie-Mae was

removing the salad plates.

"So, where do you find your clients?" he asked.

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Johnson smiled. "Usually, they find me. Most of my new

clients are friends of other clients."

Subtle, I thought.

"Do you have a showroom?" Porter Meade asked. "I have a

conference in New York next month, and we'd love to stop by

and see it."

"Sorry, I've never found the need for one," Johnson said

modestly. "I do this more or less as a hobby. I have several

personal contacts in Europe who put me in touch with private

parties who, for one reason or another, wish or need to divest

themselves of part or all of their collections. If you'd be

interested in something specific, I'd be happy to see what I

could find for you."

Bait dangled.

"I appreciate that," Porter said. "Be sure to give me your

card before we leave."

And we have a bite!

I have to hand it to Johnson—he played it very casually

and gave the impression he knew what he was talking about.

But that, after all, is what con artists do.

* * * *

All-in-all, a very pleasant evening, which broke up around

ten. The Conrads were the first to indicate they were ready to

leave, and I took the opportunity to offer Johnson a ride to

his hotel.

"That's kind of you, but I can easily take a cab," he said.

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"It's no bother." At one point in the evening, I'd heard him

mention he was staying at the Montero. "The Montero's

practically on our way home."

Jonathan gave me a quick glance, knowing the Montero

was, in fact, quite a bit out of our way, but said nothing,

understanding that I wanted the chance to talk with Johnson

outside the group setting.

"Well, if you're sure it won't be an imposition..."

We took our leave of the Glicks shortly thereafter, and

Arnold made sure I overhead his making arrangements to

meet Johnson at the Montero at ten the next morning.

* * * *

As we got to the car, Jonathan started to get into the back

seat so that Johnson could sit beside me to make

conversation easier, but Johnson insisted in sitting in the

back.

"That way, you won't have to change seats when you drop

me off," he said.

Actually, I was glad that he did—having Jonathan switch

from back to front would have involved getting his

fingerprints on both door handles. This way, only Johnson's

would be on the back.

"Do you know many people here?" I asked as we drove

toward his hotel.

"I'm afraid not," he said. "Why do you ask?"

"No reason. I know a few people who are into art who

might be interested in meeting you."

"Really?"

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I could sense his attention level rising.

"Yes. I'm thinking particularly of Crandall Booth, who owns

several car dealerships. I know he's recently taken an interest

in art."

While I didn't turn directly to him when I mentioned

Booth's name, I did glance in the rearview mirror and thought

I noticed a flicker of ... something ... cross his face. It may

have been the reflection of a passing streetlight, but I made

note of it, nonetheless.

"Perhaps I could set up a meeting with him for you," I

suggested.

"That's nice of you, but I'm leaving tomorrow afternoon

and I'm not sure when I'll be back. Perhaps on my next visit."

Hmmm. Playing it cool, or was it that he recognized

Booth's name? I decided to step a bit further out onto thin

ice.

"Interestingly, the victim of the murder I'm investigating

was Booth's ... house guest ... at the time he was killed."

"Is he a suspect?" he asked.

"He's not been ruled out. But I must say, Booth's been

very secretive when it comes to the details of exactly how

they got together. They met in Atlanta, is all I know."

Glancing into the mirror, I caught another flicker, but there

was no passing streetlight this time.

I hoped indicating I didn't know much about Grant's

background might forestall any Johnson wondering if I were

on to him—assuming that he and Robert Smith were the

same person.

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"A lovely city, Atlanta," he observed. "I've not been there

in years, but I always enjoy it."

I do love games, and had no doubt now we were playing

one.

"Would you happen to have another card on you? Perhaps

I could give it to Crandall next time I see him."

He reached into his jacket pocket, took on a puzzled look

and withdrew his hand. "I'm sorry," he said, "I seem to have

given the last one I had on me to Porter."

"No problem," I assured him. "Perhaps next time you're in

town we can get together."

I reached into my own shirt pocket with my right hand,

took out one of my own business cards and handed it to him

over my shoulder.

"That would be nice," he said.

As we pulled up in front of the Montero, he leaned forward

and extended his hand. "Thank you for the ride. Nice to have

met you, Jonathan."

Jonathan turned to shake hands.

"Likewise," he said.

They released the handshake, and Johnson got out. He

closed the door, bent down to give a wave through the

window and strode into the hotel.

"That was odd," Jonathan said as I pulled away from the

curb.

"What was?"

"I saw him give his card to Doctor Meade," he said, "and

he had a bunch of them. I saw him put them back into his

pocket."

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The Angel Singers

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CHAPTER NINE

Well, I obviously had quite a bit of thinking to do about

Kenneth Johnson, and I knew I should do it before calling the

Glicks first thing in the morning. I knew they expected my

impressions before their ten o'clock meeting with him at the

Montero.

But this was Jonathan's and my first full evening alone

together in what seemed like an eternity, and as I knew

would happen, the minute we got back to the apartment

Grant Jefferson and Kenneth Johnson and everything else

took a back seat to us being us. I should have felt guilty, but

I didn't.

After Jonathan finally fell asleep around two, I opened the

closet of my thoughts. Johnson's not wanting to give me his

business card was a little pointless, since I'm sure he knew I

could get the information from the Glicks. Whether or not he

suspected the reason why Jonathan and I were at dinner I

couldn't say. I think we covered it quite well, and I had gone

out of my way to avoid giving him specific reason to think I

was targeting him. Still, the guy was far from stupid, and I

was sure the very presence of a private investigator, no

matter how innocent, would be enough to put him on guard.

So, what did I think of him? With absolutely no solid

evidence to back it up, I was sure that Kenneth Johnson and

Robert Smith were the same person. In dealing with him, the

Glicks were opening themselves up to being scammed. If I

was wrong and he was legit, what would the Glicks be out,

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really? They could pursue their art collecting from any

number of other unquestionably legitimate sources.

But for them to close the door on Johnson before I was

able to determine whether he might, as I suspected, have

been in town at the time Grant was killed would be to risk his

disappearing into other identities and who knows what other

locations.

The Glicks had been vague as to exactly when Johnson had

first come into town, and I hadn't pressed them on it; but

now I really wanted to see if I could pin them down, or if they

might be able to check the date on any receipt or paperwork

they may have exchanged on their first purchase from him.

I wasn't sure whether or not to let then know that my

interest in Johnson went beyond their immediate concerns. If

he were, by some chance, legit this wouldn't be exactly fair to

him, but on the other hand, if I didn't mention it they might

think I'd been hiding things from them. I definitely did not

want that.

* * * *

Jonathan awoke me in a most unusual but pleasant way

Sunday morning.

"Hey, it's our last chance before Joshua comes home—we

might as well take advantage of it."

I like the way that boy thinks.

Later, while he was in the shower, I threw on a robe out of

habit and went into the living room to call the Glicks. It was

only eight-fifteen, but I hoped they'd be up.

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Iris answered, since Sunday was Johnnie-Mae's day off.

After thanking her for a pleasant evening, I asked if Arnold

might be able to pick up another phone so I could talk with

them both.

"One moment," she said. "I'll get him."

There was a brief pause and then Arnold's "Good morning,

Dick. I was hoping you might call. Did you have the chance to

form any opinions of Kenneth Johnson?"

"Yes, I did. He's very convincing, but then, that's part of

being a con man. Based mostly on instinct and another

matter, I would advise against making any sizable investment

in him at the moment."

"Another matter?" Arnold asked.

I paused, not sure exactly how to proceed. So, as always,

I jumped in.

"I'm afraid there's considerably more involved here than

whether Johnson is a con man or not." I quickly outlined the

situation and circumstances surrounding Grant Jefferson's

murder, and my belief that Kenneth Johnson was not only a

scam artist but was also known as Robert Smith and may

possibly have been involved in Grant's death.

"Can you possibly check your records for the exact date

Johnson first came to town to see you?"

"Of course," Arnold replied. "And I must say I'm shocked

by all of this. We'll cancel our meeting with him immediately."

"Ahh, please don't do that," I said. "I know I haven't any

right to drag you into all this, but if you give Johnson any

indication that you're on to him, I'm afraid he'll disappear into

another identity and move on scam someone else."

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"What do you suggest we do?"

"Nothing that you wouldn't have done if we'd not had this

conversation. I assume he didn't bring any pieces with him

that he's expecting you to buy today?"

"No ... he said he had photos of several pieces he thought

might interest us, which he'll be showing us this morning.

Frankly, if he made a habit of wandering around the country

with a suitcase full of antiquities, I'd have closed the door on

this long ago."

"Good. So, we have some leeway here as far as time is

concerned. While I hate to ask you to risk a cent of your own

money, you mentioned that the deposit he asked for on the

first piece you bought from him was reasonable?"

"Yes. Generally ten percent of the purchase price, which

we feel is both logical and reasonable and an investment we

would happily make if you think Johnson might conceivably

be involved in a murder. We'll be happy to do whatever we

can to keep him from slipping away."

"That's really very kind of you," I said and meant it

sincerely. "And in the meantime, I would suggest you take

your earlier purchase to a professional appraiser. If, by

chance, it was stolen shortly before you bought it, it may not

have had time to appear on stolen goods lists when you first

took it for authentication. But now that some time has

passed..."

"An excellent idea," Arnold said. "I'll put in a call to Doctor

Gunderson at Mountjoy to see if he knows of an appraiser. I

doubt he would have access to stolen property lists, but he

may be able to refer us to a dealer who would.

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"In the meantime, we'll play it by ear and see what

develops. We'll call you this afternoon, say around two?"

"That will be fine. And I really appreciate your going out of

your way like this."

"We're glad to help," Iris said. "And now we'd better finish

getting ready for our meeting."

We exchanged goodbyes, and I heard Jonathan enter the

room as I hung up.

"Are you going to try to make church today?" I asked as I

turned around to see him standing there, naked as a jaybird,

toweling his hair. "...and don't do that!" I added hastily.

"Do what?" he asked, innocently, still toweling.

I gave a flip of my hand toward his nakedness. "That," I

said. "We've got to go pick up Joshua before midnight, and

this ain't helping."

He grinned and sighed. "Yeah, you're right. But it feels

kind of nice to wander around in the altogether."

"No argument from me there," I said, fighting off the urge

to strip down myself. "But about church...?"

"I think we can skip it today," he said. "I don't think God

will mind. And we really should offer to take Tim out to

brunch, don't you think?"

"I was just thinking that," I said. "Why don't you give him

a call while I jump in the shower? I'm sure Joshua got him up

hours ago."

Jonathan tossed me his towel. "Hang this up for me?"

It took all the willpower I could muster, but I caught the

towel in mid-air and went directly into the bathroom without

looking back.

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I heard the phone ring. I stopped long enough to hear

Jonathan say, "Oh, hi, Eric!" before stepping into the shower

and closing the door.

* * * *

Jonathan was still naked when I got out of the shower,

apparently just having gotten off the phone.

"I called Tim," he announced as he joined me in the

bedroom to start getting dressed. "He's up for brunch and

says Joshua was the perfect house guest."

"Uh-huh," I said.

"Hey, would Tim lie? Joshua thought so, too, apparently.

He insisted on getting on the phone and wanted to tell me all

about his evening, but I told him we'd be seeing him soon

and he could tell us then."

"So, what's with Eric?" I asked, tucking in my shirttail and

zipping up my pants.

"He wanted to know if he could ride over to the rehearsal

with me this afternoon—his car's acting up, and we're

supposed to be there by four-thirty. We should be out by six.

He's going to visit a friend who lives right near here, and I

told him we should be home by two-thirty and for him to

come over here for coffee after he's done. We can leave from

here."

"Cutting it a little close on time, isn't it?" I asked.

"No problem. But I will be kind of glad when the concert's

over so I can have more time at home."

"I'll drink to that," I said.

"Anyway, he'll be by around three."

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"Did you tell him about our dinner at the Glicks?" I asked,

fairly confident he couldn't wait to impress his friends.

"Yes, I did. And it turns out he knows Doctor Meade."

"Really?" I said, curious. "How's that?"

"I guess he saw him for a while after his family died."

That made sense, since Meade had said he counseled

traumatized youth, and Eric's losing his entire family certainly

qualified as trauma. But I found it interesting and couldn't

help but wonder about the details.

* * * *

Before leaving for Tim's, I decided to go down to the car to

lift any prints off the rear door handle, then cursed myself

soundly when I realized I'd left my print kit at the office, so I

couldn't do anything until Monday. To avoid risking having

Tim or Joshua open the back door, we took Jonathan's car.

We left the decision of where to go up to Tim, who was

aware of our reluctance to go to a gay restaurant out of

consideration for those patrons who might find having a fiveyear-

old boy at the next table put a crimp on the range of

their conversations. So, I was relieved when he suggested the

Cove, though I'd have enjoyed a bloody mary or two.

Joshua treated us, on the way to the restaurant, to a

detailed accounting of his night with Uncle Tim and how he

got to help make popcorn and read a book about fishes and

played cards and watched TV. During brunch we got a chance

to catch up with what was going on with Tim and Phil. It

seemed strange not having Phil with us, since ordinarily we

never saw one without the other.

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Tim had known me long enough not to bring up what I

might be working on until and unless I mentioned it first, and

I didn't. I wanted this to be nothing more than a pleasant

brunch with a friend.

We dropped Tim off and returned home around one-thirty

after a stop at one of Joshua's favorite parks—well, any park

with a swing set, slide, monkey bars and merry-go-round is

Joshua's favorite—to give him a chance to run around and

burn off some of his always-excess energy. We also swung by

a local bakery that was open on Sunday to pick up something

to have with coffee during Eric's visit. Joshua thought the

three-tiered wedding cake in the window would be nice, and it

was only after a lengthy negotiation that he settled for a

dozen assorted donuts, which we let him help select.

The phone rang at precisely two o'clock.

"Dick, it's Arnold. Our meeting with Johnson went very

well, and we've agreed to purchase another piece from him.

We gave him a deposit on it."

"I really appreciate your going out on a limb like that," I

said. "I hope it wasn't too large a deposit."

"We can manage it," he said. "Oh, and Iris found our copy

of the cashier's check we gave him when he was here the first

time. It's dated the eighteenth of last month."

And Grant was killed on the twentieth.

"Johnson's leaving town this afternoon, as I recall." I said.

"Yes. His flight left at one-thirty, I believe," he said. "He'll

be back sometime late next week to deliver the piece. He'll

call first, I'm sure."

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"Great," I said. "That will give me time to check out a few

more things and maybe pull the whole case together."

I realized as I said it that I was probably being more than

a tad optimistic, but it could happen.

* * * *

The coffee was on and the box of donuts safely on top of

the refrigerator where Joshua could not easily get to it when

Eric arrived. Joshua, who had been playing in his room, came

running out when he heard the buzzer, assuming it was donut

time. When Jonathan told him it would be a few minutes yet,

he headed back to his room.

"Aren't you going to say hello to Eric?" Jonathan asked.

"No," Joshua said. "I'm busy."

"You're not that busy, so you just stand here until Eric

comes in and say hello to him. Then you can go back to your

room."

Joshua gave him the rolled-eyes look he had obviously

picked up from Jonathan—maybe it was genetic—but stayed

where he was as I went to the door to let Eric in.

I was a bit surprised when Eric gave me a quick hug with

his "Hi, Dick." He then turned to Jonathan and Joshua. "How's

it going, guys?"

"Fine," Joshua said then turned and headed for his room.

Jonathan looked after him with a puzzled scowl. "I have no

idea what gets into that kid."

"Not to worry," Eric said. "He's a kid. He can't like

everybody."

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"I don't think it's a matter of his not liking you," I said. "As

I told Jonathan, I think he's jealous of you for taking Jonathan

away from him. Hard for a five-year-old to separate things.

To him, you're the chorus."

"Interesting," Eric said. "I don't make people jealous very

often, try as I might."

I hadn't a clue as to what he meant by that, but was pretty

sure he meant something.

We'd no sooner sat down than Jonathan popped right back

up.

"Maybe we should have our coffee now so we don't have to

rush."

Not surprisingly, Joshua magically appeared. "Can we have

a donut now?"

Jonathan shook his head. "Yes, we can have a donut now.

Come help me."

"I understand you know Porter Meade," I said to Eric as

Jonathan and Joshua busied themselves in the kitchen.

That the statement was totally out of left field didn't seem

to faze him. He shrugged. "Yeah, I saw him for awhile. I don't

think he liked me much."

"Odd that you'd say that," I said. "Psychologists pride

themselves on their objectivity."

Eric grinned. "Yeah, well some are more objective than

others, I guess."

"What makes you think he didn't like you?"

Another shrug. "You'd have to ask him, I guess."

The discussion was interrupted as Joshua entered with the

box of donuts and a thin stack of large paper napkins. I noted

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one donut was missing and assumed he had laid claim to it

before leaving the kitchen.

He went first to Eric—I had no doubt on specific

instructions from Jonathan—and held the box out to him.

"Here," he said, and when Eric took one and a napkin with

thanks, he put the box and the napkins down on the coffee

table in front of me, reaching into the box.

"Don't you already have one?" I asked.

"No."

I gave him a raised-eyebrow stare, and he reluctantly

recanted.

"Well, I'm really, really hungry."

"Okay," I said. "But you give it to Uncle Jonathan to set

aside for you for later."

Nodding, he raced back into the kitchen.

"Drat!" Eric said. "I forgot the book!"

"The book?" I asked.

"The one Jonathan lent me, the one by Morgan Butler. It

was great, and I was hoping I could borrow another."

"I'm sure that could be arranged," I said. "And there's no

rush in getting the first one back."

He didn't look convinced. "Yeah, but..."

"No problem," I said. "Don't worry about it."

* * * *

Parking my car in the pay-by-the-month lot across the

street from my building, I ran up to the office only long

enough to retrieve my fingerprint kit from the file cabinet. It

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never failed that no matter where I put the kit, it was never

handy when I needed it.

Hoping Johnson had left some clear prints on the door

handle, I brushed the area with the iron shavings and was

relieved to find what appeared to be not one but two useable

prints. Lifting them carefully with the tape, I fastened them

on the special small glycine sheets, laid them inside the kit,

closed it and returned to the office.

Pausing to start a pot of coffee, I went to my desk to call—

or rather, since I was pretty sure he wouldn't be in, to leave a

message for—Marty Gresham. I then settled into my usual

office morning routine, hoping to hear from him.

I was finishing up the crossword puzzle when someone

knocked on the door, which opened before I could say

anything. I was more than a little surprised when Eric came

in.

"I brought the book," he said. "I didn't feel right about

waiting until practice tomorrow to give it back." He crossed

the room and set it on my desk.

"You're not working today?" I asked, more than a little

puzzled by his sudden appearance.

"Eleven," he said. "There's a big shipment coming in this

afternoon, so the boss told me not to come in until later. It'll

be a long night."

"You want some coffee?" I asked.

"Sure. That'd be great ... as long as I'm not keeping you

from anything." He indicated the crossword puzzle with a nod

and a grin.

"No, I'm waiting for a phone call before I can do much."

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I started to get up, but he headed for the coffeemaker,

saying "I can get it. You need a refill?"

"Uh, yeah, now that you mention it."

He brought the pot over and topped of my extended cup.

Returning to the coffeemaker, he took a Styrofoam cup from

the short stack beside the machine and filled it, put the pot

back on the hot plate then came over and sat down.

"I should have brought some donuts," he said with a grin,

which I returned.

"So, you liked the book?"

"Yeah, it was great. Jonathan was telling me the story

behind Morgan and his writing. Incredible! I can't wait to read

the rest of his books."

He was quiet a moment, and I was aware he was watching

me.

"Something wrong?" I asked.

He shook his head. "No, I was thinking about you and

Jonathan and how lucky you are. I'd give anything for a

relationship like yours."

"Well, it isn't all skittles and beer," I said. "We have our

problems like anybody else."

"But you never cheat?"

Now, there was a strange question.

"Nope," I said. "I can only speak for myself, but I really do

believe in that old till death do us part thing, even though we

aren't allowed to be officially married. I'm pretty sure

Jonathan feels the same way."

"He does," he said. "He told me. Would you and Jonathan

get married, if you could?"

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"Personally, I don't think a sheet of paper makes very

good glue. But legally, it has definite protections that are

denied us, especially when it comes to Joshua."

He sighed. "I envy you ... and Jonathan."

I decided not to pursue that particular line of conversation.

"So, I gather the whole Grant Jefferson thing has begun to

die off for the chorus?" I asked.

He took a sip of his coffee.

"Are you serious?" he asked. "You think a bunch of queens

are going to willingly stop chewing on as juicy a tidbit as a

murder—and possibly a murderer—in their midst? Not likely.

Right now, everyone's distracted from concentrating on the

concert, but once it's over, we'll all get back to speculating on

who did it. How's your investigation going, by the way? I

didn't want to mention it yesterday."

"A couple of very positive leads," I said, not wanting to go

into it further.

"Someone from the chorus?"

I shrugged. "It wouldn't be fair to say at this point."

"I understand," he said. "Sorry to have asked."

"No problem."

He drained his coffee and got up. "Well, I've got a couple

of errands to run before I go to work, so I'd better get going.

I just wanted to get the book back to you. I've already

started on the one Jonathan gave me yesterday."

I got up to walk him to the door. He gave me a hug before

opening the door and leaving.

Why, Richard Marsten Hardesty, you old dog! a mind voice

said teasingly. I do believe you have an admirer.

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I'd been out of the singles life so long that when an

occasional cruise did come along I didn't allow myself to pay

much attention to it, other than to be flattered. Maybe I was

losing my touch. I still had nothing but a gut-level feeling that

Eric was interested in me; and I knew that, even if he was,

the fact of his being friends with Jonathan would really put

the brakes on. And if that didn't, I would.

Still, it was always nice to know I still had it.

My reverie was interrupted by the phone.

"Hardesty Investigations," I said, even though I hoped it

would be Marty returning my call.

"Dick, Marty. What's going on?"

"I wonder if you could check out some prints for me," I

said.

"This about the Jefferson case, I assume?"

"You assume right. I suspect some friends are being

scammed by none other than our elusive friend Clarence

Farnsworth, a.k.a. Robert Smith and, maybe, Kenneth

Johnson. I managed to get some prints from him."

"Great! If it is Farnsworth we'll pick him up. You still think

he's involved in Jefferson's death?"

"Everything points in that direction," I said. "But the

picking him up bit is going to take a while."

"Why's that?"

"He left town yesterday, but he'll be back next week to

complete his latest scam."

"Okay. I'm up to my eyebrows in paperwork and am going

to be nailed to the desk all day. Do you want to bring them

by? I can run them up to the lab as soon as I get them."

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"Sure," I said. "Any chance you might be free for lunch?"

He sighed. "I wish! I brought lunch from home since I

knew I wouldn't be able to get out. A rain check?"

"Sure," I said.

"You can leave the prints at the desk downstairs and ask

them to let me know they're here. I'll get back to you as soon

as I get the results."

"Thanks," I said. "Anything new on the case from your

end?"

"Not really. One of the things I'm doing today is going over

everything we have on it to see if maybe we missed

something. Nothing so far."

"Well, keep me posted if anything should come up."

"You know I will. And same for you."

"Yep. So, later, then."

I hate being on a hamster wheel, running as fast as I can

without getting anywhere, but the fact of the matter was that

Farnsworth was the only real straw I had left to cling to as far

as the chances for solving this case.

I knew there are far more unsolved murders out there

than law enforcement would want us to believe, but I hated

the idea that something I was working on might be one of

them.

Okay, Hardesty, I thought, you're the detective here. So,

detect. You haven't done anything on this case that Jonathan

or anyone else couldn't have done.

Well, I had to admit there was one small thing that had

been niggling at me, but it was so farfetched I hadn't allowed

myself to give it any solid credence.

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* * * *

Wednesday morning, Marty called to say that the

fingerprints I'd lifted from my car door handle did belong to

Clarence Farnsworth. I suggested he contact the Glicks, after

giving me time to call and alert them, to make arrangements

to nab Farnsworth the instant they turned over the rest of the

cash for their purchase.

All of which would put at least a temporary end to

Farnsworth's scamming but do absolutely nothing about his

involvement—if any—in Grant's death.

As soon as I hung up from Marty, I dialed the Glicks.

Johnnie-Mae answered.

"Glick residence."

When I asked to speak to either Iris or Arnold, she told me

they were not in, so I asked her to tell them to expect a call

from Detective Gresham. I also remembered that I still hadn't

heard whether they'd checked to see if the piece they had

previously purchased had shown up on any stolen-antiquities

list, so also asked her to have them call me when they could.

I toyed with the idea of putting in a call to Porter Meade to

satisfy my curiosity about Eric, but ruled it out on several

logical grounds. First, if Eric had been a patient of his, Meade

couldn't tell me anything on the grounds of doctor/patient

confidentiality. And it was hardly surprising if the trauma over

the death of his family would have resulted in Eric's having

spent time in Meade's clinic.

I realized that I had never really considered Eric as a

possible suspect—at least no more so than several other

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people. I'll admit he did have a motive in Grant's perceived

threat to the chorus, to which he had devoted so much of his

life and energy. But I always had a hard time thinking of

people I knew personally as being capable of murder, even

though facts had proven otherwise in more than one past

case.

Still, I'd have said Eric's possible motive paled when

compared to those like Booth's or Stapleton's or Barry

Legget's or even Jerry Granville's. And if the chorus being

threatened were considered a motive, Rothenberger would

have every bit as strong a motive as Eric—probably stronger.

I was also, to be perfectly honest, a little disturbed by my

motives in being so interested in Eric in the first place. There

are some dark corners of my mind I prefer never going into,

and I didn't want this to be one of them.

No, I decided, I'd wait until I saw where the

Farnsworth/Smith/Johnson scenario went.

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The Angel Singers

by Dorien Grey

193

CHAPTER TEN

By Friday, I'd exchanged several calls with both Marty and

the Glicks. The Glicks had discovered, with his help, that the

first purchase from Farnsworth/Johnson—the one they'd had

authenticated—had been stolen from a private collection only

days before they bought it. It had only made it onto the

stolen property lists in the past week. So, while

Farnsworth/Johnson could be arrested on sight for selling

stolen property, Marty wanted to strengthen the case against

him by catching him making another sale.

The Glicks had called to say "Johnson" was due in the

following Wednesday with their latest purchase, and they

were to have him over for dinner. They had agreed to include

Marty on the pretext of his being a prospective new client,

and while I really wanted to be included, I knew my presence

wasn't necessary. Plus, it was Jonathan's school night, and I

couldn't very well have dragged Joshua along.

The weekend finally arrived, and in honor of Jonathan's

debut and celebration of my birthday, the whole gang had

arranged to get together for dinner at Napoleon's on Saturday

night; the chorus's final rehearsal was Saturday afternoon.

We'd gotten Craig to sit for Joshua, and his folks had agreed

to him staying overnight and accompanying us to the

performance Sunday afternoon. Craig himself intended to try

out for the chorus as soon as he reached the required

minimum age of 18, which was about a year away.

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It was a great evening, though Mario had to leave right

after dinner to go to work—being manager of a busy bar like

Venture didn't allow much evening free time. Since Bob

owned Ramon's, he could allow himself a bit more leeway,

but we all drove out there for an after-dinner drink. Then, on

our way home, Jonathan and I stopped at Griff's to listen to a

few piano sets from Guy Prentiss.

As I said, a great evening.

* * * *

I'd hoped we'd be able to sleep in on Sunday, since Craig

was there to watch over Joshua, but Jonathan was so excited

about the concert he was like a tree full of owls, and we

managed maybe a total of five hours' sleep.

The concert was at three, and the chorus had to assemble

at the Atheneum by one-thirty, which made for an interesting

bit of Sunday morning logistics. Jonathan was too nervous to

sit through a church service but didn't want Joshua to miss

another Sunday, so since we had no qualms about Joshua

remaining in Craig's care a bit longer, I volunteered to drive

them to the M.C.C. and pick them up just before noon.

The running back and forth all but blew my Sundaymorning-

with-the-paper routine out of the water, but I am

nothing if not noble in my sacrifices. When we got back to the

apartment after church, Jonathan was on the phone talking to

Max and Chris in New York, who'd called to wish him well. As

soon as he could, he excused himself and turned it over to

me. I hadn't talked with Chris and Max in more than a month,

so there was a lot of catching up to do. The big news from

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their end was that Max's company was definitely moving their

offices to the 88th floor of one of the World Trade Center

towers, and he was thrilled by it. "I'll finally be able to look

down on all the 'little people,'" he joked.

We finally hung up with promises of their exploring the

possibility of coming out for a visit around Christmas.

I'd intended for all of us to go out for brunch, but Jonathan

was too nervous to eat and anxious to get to the hall early.

When he emerged from the bedroom he was wearing the

"right" black pants he'd finally managed to find and a longsleeved

buttoned sport shirt ("A pullover would mess up my

hair," he'd explained). He was carrying a dry-cleaner's plastic

bag over a hanger with his new white dress shirt, bright blue

cummerbund and matching blue bow tie. Craig still had a

huge crush on Jonathan, and it showed as he looked at him.

Jonathan, ever the diplomat, pretended not to notice.

"We ready?" he asked, and we headed for the door.

* * * *

After dropping Jonathan off at the Atheneum, where

several other chorus members were already going down the

alley to the performers' entrance, many with bags similar to

his slung over their shoulders, Joshua, Craig and I found the

closest available parking place and walked to a nearby family

restaurant for lunch.

I'd only been alone with only Joshua and Craig before

when I drove them to church, and it was an interesting set of

dynamics. I realized, for one thing, that Craig was one of the

few people in Joshua's circle of people whose name he did not

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preface with "Uncle." "Uncle Jonathan," "Uncle Dick," "Uncle

Tim," "Uncle Phil"—all our close friends were "Uncle" to

Joshua. But Craig was "Craig," and Joshua looked on him as a

peer, a big brother whom he idolized. We, in turn, could

never have found anyone better for Joshua than Craig. He

had a younger brother and sister at home but treated Joshua

as another sibling. That meant a lot to both of us.

I asked Craig about his boyfriend Bill, and from his evasive

answer, I got the definite impression there might be trouble

in paradise. Bill was Craig's first love, but they were both

seventeen, and happily-ever-afters are not very common at

that age. We talked instead—when Joshua wasn't trying to

distract one or both of us—about his having made the swim

team at school and his plans to try out for track.

"I can swim," Joshua volunteered happily. "Can I come

swimming with you sometime?"

Craig grinned and tousled his hair. "Sure. We'll go to

Jessup Reservoir next summer."

"Why can't we go now?"

"Because the water's too cold now."

"But you go swimming there."

"No, I swim at school, and they only let you swim there

when you're a student. You'll be one in a couple of years."

Joshua shrugged and picked up a sausage from his plate.

"Fork, Joshua," I said, and he shot me a long-suffering

look but put the sausage down and reached for his fork.

* * * *

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Atheneum Hall is on several lists of the finest music

venues in the country, and it had earned the right to be.

Every major orchestra had performed there at one time or

another. It was an old grand dame of a place, in the tradition

of Carnegie Hall.

We arrived at about two-thirty, and it was apparent the

place was going to be filled to capacity. Though the crowd

was predominantly gay and lesbian, I was pleased to see that

the straight community was well represented.

Our seats were in the loge, but we'd all agreed to meet in

the lobby. Tim, Phil, Bob and Mario were already there. I

introduced Craig, who was obviously more than a little

impressed by Phil.

"I've seen you in those brief and swimsuit ads," he said

admiringly. "You're hot!"

Phil grinned.

A moment later, Jake and Jared walked up. If Craig had

been impressed with Phil he was even more so with the two

J's, who looked spectacular as always.

Looking around the crowd, I spotted a number of other

people I knew, including Glen O'Banyon, who came over

briefly to exchange a few words with everyone. Significantly, I

did not see Crandall Booth.

Taking our seats, I started to put Joshua between Craig

and me, but he would have none of it.

"I want to sit next to Craig and Uncle Jared!" he declared.

I recognized it as a small declaration of independence from

my insisting that he stay at my side whenever Jonathan

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wasn't with us. Rather than argue with him, I said, "Okay, but

you'd better be a very good boy."

He looked at me solemnly. "I'm always a very good boy."

Right.

He quickly edged past Craig to the seat between Craig and

Jared—a spot I'm sure Craig would have preferred for himself.

The stage was bare save for a two-tier riser, a podium

front center for the director and a lectern stage left. A grand

piano—nice touch—was downstage right and a percussion set

across from it, stage left. Two large floral displays were

located to either side and slightly forward of the risers.

At exactly three o'clock, with every seat in the place taken,

the house lights dimmed, the room gradually fell silent and

the chorus filed in from the wings.

A truly impressive bunch—all identically but simply dressed

in black dress pants, white dress shirt with bright blue bow tie

and matching blue cummerbund and all walking in step—

though Jim Bowers, still not fully recovered from his hit-andrun,

was using a cane. They stepped onto and moved across

the risers. Jonathan was in the front row, fifth from the left,

and he looked so beautiful my chest hurt. (Okay, okay, so it's

hokey verging on maudlin. I don't give a damn—it's what I

felt.)

It took me a minute to realize he and three other members

were holding long-stemmed red roses. I didn't know what

that was all about, but the spot of red against the black,

white and blue looked nice.

The pianist and a French Horn player entered from stage

right as the percussionist and a bass player came from stage

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left, followed by a sign language interpreter who moved to

the small lectern. When everyone was in place, Roger

Rothenberger, wearing a tuxedo, entered to warm applause.

He strode across the stage and stepped up onto the podium,

turning to face the audience.

Using a small hand mike he'd picked up from the podium,

he welcomed everyone and made a few introductory remarks

about the chorus, its history and its importance to not only

the gay community but to the city's diverse culture. Then he

turned to the chorus, laid the mike back on the podium and

raised his hands. The first song was Jerome Kern's "All the

Things You Are," one of my favorites. It took maybe all of ten

seconds to confirm my earlier opinion that these guys were

really, really good, and I was both proud of and happy for

Jonathan's being a part of it.

* * * *

By the second song, an a capella version of "Maybe This

Time" from Cabaret, they had the audience eating out of their

hand. The first half of the program covered a wide range of

songs and styles, each one received with what seemed like

more enthusiasm than the one before. The patriotic medley,

including "You're a Grand Old Flag" and "God Bless America"

gave me goosebumps, and the last song of the first half was

"I Am What I Am," with Jim Bowers doing the solo. When the

song ended, the entire audience rose to its feet. The chorus

filed out to a standing ovation that continued until the last

man had left the stage.

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"That was fantastic!" Craig said as we rose to go to the

foyer. "Thanks so much for bringing me!"

"We've still got another half to go," I reminded him. "And

speaking of going, come on, Joshua, let's go to the

bathroom."

"I don't have to go," he said.

"Well, better safe than sorry," I insisted, taking his hand

and leading him through the crowd toward the bathrooms.

There was barely enough time before the end of the

intermission to exchange a few words with the gang, all of

whom expressed surprise at how good the chorus was. The

quick flickering of the lights told us it was time to return to

our seats.

The chorus filed back in, and the houselights dimmed to

begin the second half of the program, which included "I Hear

Singing," from Call Me Madam, "Somewhere," from West Side

Story, "Oklahoma" and "What I did for Love," from A Chorus

Line. The selections varied from serious to light, but each had

its own strengths, and the most common theme was love and

empowerment.

The last number on the program was an incredibly

powerful rendition of "Battle Hymn of the Republic" that left

me with a huge lump in my throat.

When the last note faded, there was a full ten seconds of

silence, and then the audience rose for the strongest ovation

of the evening, which was silenced only when Rothenberger

turned back to the chorus for an encore: "Consider Yourself,"

from Oliver. Splitting in the middle, the two rows of singers

moved off the risers to either side, marched in time to the

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music to the front of the stage where they stopped only long

enough to take a perfectly synchronized bow. Then, each line

crossed the other and marched off into the wings, still

singing, leaving only Roger Rotherberger standing in the

middle of the now-empty stage. With the last note of the

song, he bowed and walked off stage left.

When the applause continued unabated for a full two

minutes, Roger came back on stage and motioned for the

chorus to join him. They quickly formed a single line across

the entire width of the stage, took another bow then, joining

hands, went into their final encore, the patriotic "This is My

Country," which had special significance for an audience

largely made up of people who too often had been made to

feel they did not belong.

When they had finished, they once more moved offstage to

thunderous applause. Then the houselights came up, and the

concert was officially over.

* * * *

I'd told Jonathan we'd meet him in front of the building. I

expected the rest of the gang would go on their way as soon

as we got outside, but they said they wanted to wait.

Everyone agreed it had been a smashing success and a great

moment for the city's gay community. Craig kept a close

watch on Joshua while I was distracted, though I noticed he

shot frequent glances at Jared and Jake. I have no doubt but

that they would be providing him with fantasy fodder for quite

some time.

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At last Jonathan came up from the side of the theater,

accompanied by Eric. Joshua and I gave him a big hug and,

after only a moment's hesitation, so did Craig. Jonathan

introduced Eric. and we spent the next several minutes

talking about the performance and everyone's total delight

with it.

Eventually, everyone exchanged goodbyes and headed off

in their own directions, as did we. I noticed Jonathan was still

carrying his rose.

"You have a secret admirer?" I asked. "Should I be

jealous?"

He grinned, but before he could speak, Eric said, "It's a

tradition. At every concert, the director gives a rose to guys

who have joined since the last concert. We had four this time.

But I'd still keep a close watch on Jonathan if I were you—

several guys have their eye on him."

Jonathan blushed. "Right." Then, as if to change the

subject, he said, "I told Eric we'd give him a ride home—his

car broke down and he lives not far from Craig."

"Sure," I said as we headed for the car.

* * * *

Pulling up in front of Craig's house, I got out of the car to

get his bag out of the trunk, and as he came around to get it

I handed him the money for his babysitting services.

He raised his hand in protest.

"No, no! You took me to the concert, and I know the

tickets weren't cheap. I can't tell you how much I appreciated

it. I'll never forget it. So, this one's on me."

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I was really touched, but as he reached for his bag I

tucked the money into his shirt pocket.

"Put it in your college fund," I said.

Eric lived only about six blocks from the Richmans, and the

drive there was spent in talk of the concert, with minimal

distractions from Joshua. I was oddly relieved that we'd

gotten through the entire day with not one mention of Grant

Jefferson.

I pulled up to the curb in front of Eric's building and he got

out, turning back to lean in toward the back seat to say

goodbye to Jonathan and Joshua, then to me.

"Thanks for the lift, Dick. I'll have to do something nice for

you someday." Giving me a devilish and very obvious comeon

grin. I glanced into the rearview mirror to see Jonathan

roll his eyes toward the roof.

"You want to come up front?" I asked as Eric closed the

door and moved down the sidewalk toward his building.

"That's okay," Jonathan said. "Joshua and I will stay back

here. I don't think there'd be room enough up there for me

and your swelled head."

"Hey," I protested, staring at him in the mirror and tapping

my forehead, "as long as it's only this head that's swollen, I

don't think you have to worry."

Fortunately, the exchange went completely past Joshua,

and he said nothing as he watched Eric walk into his building.

* * * *

We stopped at a fast food place for chicken so we wouldn't

have to cook, then spent a quiet evening at home. Actually,

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Jonathan spent most of it winding down from the high of the

performance.

"It was really great, babe," I told him for what must have

been the dozenth time as we sat on the couch after dinner,

watching TV while Joshua played in his room. Jonathan's rose

was in a tall, thin vase on the coffee table in front of us.

He turned his head, which he was resting on the back of

the couch, to look at me.

"It really was, wasn't it? I've never had an experience

quite like it. The feeling I get at the Gay Pride Parade comes

close, but this is so ... well, it's too hard to explain. I can't

imagine a drug that could create such a high."

"Well," I said, "now you'll have a couple of weeks to come

down before you start up again."

"Oh, no," he said. "Only one. We start rehearsals a week

from Tuesday."

"You've got to be kidding! Only one week off?"

"We've got so much to do—we've only got sixteen

rehearsals between each performance, when you think about

it, and we have to learn all the music and ... well, it's like

putting a huge jigsaw puzzle together."

I really didn't want to say anything, but I couldn't help but

be a little unhappy. Selfish of me, I know, but when he'd first

joined the Chorus I really didn't realize how much time it

would take up. Luckily, he'd be getting his associate's degree

in horticulture at the end of the current semester, which

would free up one more night and all the time he currently

devoted to studying, but...

* * * *

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Even though I was waiting to see what would develop

when Farnsworth returned to town and whether or not he

could be directly linked to Grant Jefferson's death, I didn't

feel that gave me a pass to sit back and do nothing. If Farnsworth

proved not to be the culprit, I'd be right back on square

one; and since I had nothing more pressing at the moment, I

thought I'd better go over everything one more time to make

sure I hadn't missed anything.

First thing Monday morning, I sat down to review every

note I'd made on the case, and to think back on every

conversation I'd had with everyone I'd talked to regarding it,

looking for something ... anything ... I might have

overlooked. I'd planned to write a detailed report to the

chorus's board anyway, and I figured I might as well start at

least a draft.

It turned out that little project took up most of the day,

and I had to take frequent breaks from trying to reread my

old notes and making new ones to type them up while I could

still decipher exactly what it was I'd written. Having done so,

I came to the conclusion that if I had overlooked someone or

something, I had no idea who or what it might be.

God, I hate that.

Well, at least I had the skeleton for my report to the

board, and that was something. But I didn't feel any the less

frustrated. It came down to a coin-toss—it was either Farnsworth

or it wasn't. And if it wasn't, well, I really didn't want to

think about that.

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Rather surprisingly, Porter Meade's name popped into my

head. I was at a loss as to why I should be thinking about a

psychiatrist I'd met only once, and then I recognized that, on

the level below that, the person I was really thinking about

was Eric.

I suppose there might have been something of the "small

world" factor in the coincidence that Meade had treated Eric

after the death of Eric's family. There is an element of morbid

fascination in each of us, and my wanting to know more

about how Eric had responded to the tragedy was obviously

an example of it. But why should I be thinking of it now?

Might it be, I wondered, because somewhere in the back of

my mind I was guiltily tempted to respond to what I was

pretty sure were his come-ons? I wasn't totally unfamiliar

with being cruised or, frankly, of being tempted by other

guys. As long as Jonathan was in my life I would never yield

to the temptation—he knew that. He also knew Eric better

than I did, and his eye-rolling when Eric got out of the car

when we dropped him off after the concert said he knew it

was all a tease.

Why didn't I?

* * * *

I was getting ready to close up shop—we'd not been able

to make it to the grocery store over the weekend and

Jonathan had given me a long list before we left for work—

when I got a call from Donna, Glen O'Banyon's secretary.

She asked if I might be able to do a quick bit of library

research the next morning for a case Glen was taking to trial

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at that coming Thursday. I knew he had a couple of assistants

at the office who normally did this kind of work for him, but

occasionally, when they were unavailable, he would call on

me.

I readily agreed and jotted down the information Donna

told me they needed. I actually liked jobs like this—they were

generally a piece of cake, took only take a couple of hours at

most and paid disproportionately well. Besides, it would help

take my mind off my spinning my wheels on Grant's murder

for a few hours.

* * * *

We'd barely finished dinner when the phone rang. It was

nearly a photo finish in the race to the phone between

Jonathan and Joshua, but Jonathan won by a nose. I heard

him say "Oh, hi, Eric. What's up?" before I called Joshua into

the kitchen to help me clear the table and do dishes.

I'm not sure how long it was before Jonathan entered the

kitchen, looking worried.

"Mister Booth is withdrawing his financial support from the

chorus," he said. "There probably won't be any Chicago trip."

Where in the hell did that come from? I wondered.

"How did Eric find that out?" I asked.

"He was over at Mister Rothenberger's for dinner and

Mister Booth called while he was there. He said he was going

to formally notify the chorus's board but wanted Mister

Rothenberger to know first. Eric's really, really unhappy."

"I can imagine," I said. "Did Booth give a reason?"

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"If he did, Mister Rothenberger didn't tell Eric, but Eric said

he was really angry, though he tried not to let it show."

"Well, that sucks," I said, "but I'm sure the whole chorus

won't fall apart because of it."

"I sure hope not," Jonathan replied, but it was clear he

wasn't sure that it wouldn't.

* * * *

I was at the library shortly after it opened and found what

I was looking for with a minimum of effort. I had the

information photocopied directly from the books, spent a few

minutes at a table highlighting the pertinent passages, put

the pages in a large envelope I'd brought from home and was

through. If only all my jobs were that simple.

I was heading for the door when, passing the newspaper

section of the main reading room, one of my mind-voices

said, The Fourth of July. Because I had long ago given up

trying to figure out where or why they came up with these

things, it actually took me a second to wonder what it was

talking about.

And then I remembered—Eric again. What in the hell was

it with Eric? It was really starting to worry me that maybe my

fantasies were getting the better of me, and I might actually

want to get him in bed.

The Fourth of July was the date Eric's parents and brother

had died. Eric was, I think Jonathan said, twenty-four now.

He was ... fifteen? No, fourteen ... at the time. So, ten years.

On a whim, I went to the desk to ask for copies of the local

paper for July 5, 1974. I had absolutely no idea what I hoped

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to find, but once my mind sets itself on something, I have

very little control over it.

The story made the front page of both local papers:

"Family Dies in Early-Morning Blast" and "Three Die in Natural

Gas Explosion."

Blast? Explosion? My mind immediately leapt to Grant

Jefferson. But a natural gas leak is hardly the same as a

bomb under the front seat of a car. I really had to stop trying

to find connections between things that had none.

I continued reading. Basically, the same information was in

both articles: dead were 42-year-old Marjorie Speers, her 45-

year-old husband George and their 17-year-old son, Walter.

One son, 14-year-old Eric, survived only because he had left

the house moments before the blast to quiet the family dog,

chained in the back yard, from barking. A preliminary

investigation pointed to a broken natural gas line as the

apparent cause. Funeral arrangements were pending.

I went forward a couple of days and found the obituaries

and the burial information. That was it. Not a word on what

happened to Eric or who might have taken him in. Nothing is

less important than yesterday's news.

I tried once again to imagine how horrific it must have

been for Eric, not only to have lost his entire family in an

instant, but to have come so close to death himself. If he'd

not gone out to quiet the dog, he surely would have died. I

would be surprised if his grief and survivor's guilt hadn't left

far deeper emotional scars than were visible.

So, I felt truly sorry for the guy. And I could understand

how, having no one of his own, he might be really envious of

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Jonathan's and my relationship. His teasing might be his way

of coping with it.

Then I asked myself why I'd really gone to the trouble to

look it up. Could it be because both Eric's family and Grant

had died in explosions? And that would suggest—what? That

Eric had killed them all? Hardly logical. I knew a guy who had

been on the Andrea Doria when she sank, and when I was a

kid I accidentally dropped an anchor through the bottom of

my dad's rowboat. Did that mean I sank the Andrea Doria?

* * * *

Well, if nothing else I was able to pretty well polish off the

morning. I took the papers directly over to Glen's office then

returned to my own. I probably could have stayed home,

since there was nothing I really felt I could do other than go

over, one more time, everything I'd gone over the day before.

Still, I believed that, since I had a business with an office, I

really should be there should anyone try to reach me.

I'd thought several times of getting a small TV but always

resisted the impulse, knowing damned well what a distraction

it might tend to be when I was actually working on a case.

I stopped at the diner in the lobby for a BLT, cottage

cheese and a large milk, which I took with me. I was a bit

surprised to find a message on my machine from Roger

Rothenberger, asking me to call, and I was reaching for the

phone when it rang. When it rains, it pours.

"Hardesty Investigations."

"Dick, it's Jonathan!" I could tell from his voice he was

excited about something.

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"What's up, babe?"

"Remember Mrs. Conrad, the lady we met at the Glicks'

dinner party? The one who was talking to me about plants?"

"Certainly."

"Well, she called me—I had given her one of Evergreen's

cards—and she called and asked to talk to me and asked me

if I could come over to their house tonight after work to talk

about helping her plan her landscaping, and I said I'd be glad

to because she'd probably buy everything from Evergreen,

and I'm sure my boss wouldn't mind, so could you pick

Joshua up after school and maybe start dinner?"

When he gets excited, Jonathan is not much on inserting

identifiable punctuation marks in his speech, and I knew he

was thrilled at the prospect of putting everything he'd been

studying to practical use outside the confines of our

apartment or his job.

"Sure," I said.

"Great! Thanks! I shouldn't be late, but if I am you can go

ahead and eat without me and I'll have something when I get

home."

I hung up long enough to double-check Roger

Rothenberger's number, then called.

"Rothenberger here."

"Roger, this is Dick Hardesty returning your call. What can

I do for you?"

"Well," he began, "I hope I'm not crossing any lines of

confidentiality here, but I was wondering how your

investigation into Grant's death was progressing. I ask only

because we're beginning rehearsals for our next concert this

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coming Tuesday, and I would really like to start off with a

clean slate as far as this whole Grant thing is concerned. I

hope we can lay these continuing rumors to rest."

"I understand completely." I did. I'd imagine it was hard

enough to concentrate on learning and rehearsing difficult

musical numbers without the distractions of thinking there

might be a murderer standing next to you. "There is one very

promising lead right now who isn't a member of the chorus,

and I should know if it's a valid one by the weekend."

He heaved a great sigh. "Thank you! That's excellent

news. Would you let me know as soon as you find out? I"d

love to be able to say something to the chorus."

"I'll let you know as soon as I know anything," I said. "And

I wanted to congratulate you on behalf of my friends who

were there and me on an amazing concert. We were all

tremendously impressed by it, and I'd say that even if

Jonathan weren't in the chorus."

He laughed. "Well, he's a definite asset, and yes, I was

very pleased. Despite all this dreadful turmoil, it was probably

the best we've ever done. I must say, a great deal of credit

goes to Eric and a few other members of the group, including

Jonathan, for helping to hold it all together."

I was rather curious that he didn't mention Booth's

withdrawal of financial support, but much as I wanted to

know more, I really couldn't bring it up without his knowing

how I'd heard about it. I certainly didn't want to get Eric into

any trouble.

However, taking advantage of the serendipity of his having

mentioned Eric, I quickly baited a small hook and dropped it

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into the conversational water. I wasn't fishing for anything in

particular, just curious to see if there might be a nibble.

"You're really lucky to have found Eric," I said. "It's

amazing he turned out as well as he did considering

everything he's gone through."

"I agree. I guess there's a great deal of truth in the old

saying that what doesn't destroy us makes us stronger. And

while I hate to say so, I sometimes think the death of his

family..." He let his voice trail off as though he didn't know

how to finish whatever it was he'd started to say.

"I'm sorry?" I said. "I'm not sure what you're referring to."

There was an awkward pause, then: "Nothing, really. I

only meant that his tragedies have made him an exceptionally

strong young man."

Tragedies? Plural? Good Lord, I wondered what else the

poor guy had gone through, but I didn't want to appear

ghoulish by asking for further details.

I settled for "Ah," and followed it up immediately with,

"Well, I'll call you as soon as I find out if this lead pans out."

"I'd appreciate that," he replied.

We talked for another minute or two then hung up.

* * * *

Since I'd been charged with starting dinner, I decided to

go all out and make my all-time favorite: pork chops, mashed

potatoes and gravy. On the way home, Joshua and I stopped

briefly at a supermarket to pick up six large pork chops—one

for Joshua, two for Jonathan and three for me. I could have

gotten another one for Jonathan but knew he'd end up giving

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it to me. And a large box of instant mashed potatoes. Since it

was the type of meal where you could almost hear your

arteries hardening, we didn't have it often.

So when we got home, I had Joshua help me set the table,

then made each of us a quick manhattan. Well, okay, his was

a small glass of cherry Kool-Aid, but I put a maraschino

cherry in it, and as far as he was concerned, that made it a

manhattan.

Since I like my pork chops extra crispy, which Jonathan

calls "burnt" and which I have to admit had set the smoke

alarm off a few times, I started mine first and in a separate

pan.

Jonathan arrived home, bubbly as a glass of just-poured

champagne, as I was dishing a huge cumulus cloud of

mashed potatoes into a serving dish. We exchanged our

group hug; and while I returned to making as much pan

gravy (flour, water, salt and pepper and pan drippings) as I

could manage, he filled me in on his meeting with Stella

Conrad.

"She wants to hire me!" he said, almost disbelievingly. "I

told her I had my regular job, but she asked if maybe I could

do it on weekends. I told her I'd have to check with you first,

because I've already been away from home an awful lot lately

and it isn't fair to you and Joshua, so if you don't want me to

take it, I..."

To be totally honest, a big part of me did not want him to

take it.

"How long do you think the job will take?" I asked.

"Maybe three Saturdays."

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"And you can do it all yourself?"

"Sure. It's really not all that hard. It's mostly flowerbeds

and a couple small trees and shrubs."

I could tell from the tone of his voice that he really wanted

to do it, but that he also was truly concerned about my

reaction and the possibility that I might object.

But how could I?

I poured the gravy into a large gravy boat, set down the

pan and crossed the two steps between us to hug him.

"Sure you can do it," I said. "It'll give Joshua and me a

little more quality time together, right, Joshua?"

"Can we eat now?" he asked.

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CHAPTER ELEVEN

Wednesday night, after Jonathan went off to class, I

caught myself looking at the clock every five minutes,

wondering how things were going at the Glicks. I really

wanted to be there, and selfishly had a quick flash of longing

for the day when Joshua would be old enough to stay by

himself.

I immediately felt guilty and forced myself to concentrate

on his latest favorite game, making up stories from photos he

saw in magazines. I tried to pay close attention to these

tales, since they often provided a good insight into what was

going on inside his active little mind. Conflicts between him

and either Jonathan or me (or both) would inevitably show

up, barely disguised, in his next "story."

This particular story's end (actually, it didn't end so much

as wander off) segued into his insisting on a little rollingaround-

on-the-floor roughhousing and then preparations for

bed. Jonathan arrived home as we were finishing up the

goodnight-to-Mommy-and-Daddy and "now I lay me down to

sleep" ritual, so we were able to share Story Time. We'd

worked our way about halfway through the book Barry

Leggett had brought him.

I'd noticed Jonathan came home with a few more books

than he'd left with. They were sitting on the end table near

the couch, and I indicated them with a nod.

"What's up with the extra books?"

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"The instructor let us out early tonight—he had a meeting

or something—so I was able to stop at the library before it

closed to pick up some information on some plants I'd like to

use at the Conrads'."

I grinned. "You're really getting into this, aren't you?"

"Sure!" he said. "This is my first real landscaping job on

my own. I want to do the best I can on it."

"And you will." I assured him.

"I can't wait to tell Eric."

"Well, try him now," I suggested. "He's probably still up."

He shook his head. "Not tonight. I just want to spend a

little time with you."

"Quiet time or active time?"

"How about both? We can watch the news for the quiet

time then go to bed and see what happens."

"Like you don't know?"

"Shhhh," he said. "Surprise me."

I did. It almost took my mind off my not having heard

from Marty or the Glicks on how the dinner had gone.

* * * *

I got to the office early Thursday morning, unrealistically

hoping to find a message from either Marty or the Glicks.

Nothing. I knew Marty would call as soon as he had

something to tell me. In the meantime, I resisted calling the

Glicks. It didn't seem right for a private investigator to have

to call the people who'd hired him to see how the case was

going.

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I went through my morning ritual without much

enthusiasm and badly screwed up the crossword puzzle,

which my vanity insists I do in ink, by putting the answer to

33 Down ("legerdemain") in the spaces provided for 33

Across. I probably wouldn't have noticed except that 33

Across had one less letter in it than 33 Down. By the time I

tried to fix my mistake, most of the squares were so overwritten

as to be totally illegible.

Luckily, the phone's ringing grabbed me by the back of the

shirt as I was starting down the slippery slope into a really

foul mood.

"Hardesty Investigations," I said dutifully into the receiver,

though I didn't know if the "investigations" part was

warranted, given my lack of progress either on Grant

Jefferson's murder or Farnsworth/Johnson's scamming of the

Glicks.

It was Marty.

"Sorry I didn't call until now, but we arrested Farnsworth

last night the minute he took the check from the Glicks."

"Congratulations!" I said. "So, what about the Jefferson

murder? Did you get the chance to beat a confession out of

him?"

He laughed. "Sorry, the higher-ups tend to frown on that

sort of thing nowadays. Takes a lot of the fun out of doing my

job, but ... Anyway, we didn't have a chance to question him

last night. He demanded a lawyer the minute he saw the

handcuffs."

"You arrested him yourself?" I asked. "Couldn't that have

been a little dangerous? I mean, if he did kill Grant..."

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"For one thing, we don't know if he did kill Jefferson yet,

and for another arresting people is kind of what I do for a

living. Dan was staked out right across the street, so all I had

to do was signal him to come on in. Nice people, the Glicks,

by the way. And that housekeeper of theirs! She opens a

restaurant, and I'd be there seven days a week."

"So, where does it stand now, with Farnsworth and the

questioning?" I asked.

"We had a brief session with him this morning. His lawyer

showed up late—young kid from the Public Defender's office

who probably got lost looking for police headquarters. But

whatever he lacks in experience he more than makes up for

in zeal. You'd think he was defending a nun falsely accused of

chopping up a school bus full of kids.

"So, we didn't get much out of Farnsworth, who calmly sat

there taking the whole thing in. He's no dummy, I'm pretty

sure he asked for a P.D. only to test the waters. If the kid

botches the case, he probably feels he'll have grounds for not

only an appeal but a suit against the city.

"Kind of interesting—usually it's the lawyer who's the

smooth operator and the perp who hasn't a clue, but Farnsworth's

the real pro here. He claimed to be shocked to hear

that the first piece he sold the Glicks was stolen. He

mentioned at least a dozen times that the Glicks had verified

the authenticity of the first piece and insists he's only guilty of

being scammed himself.

"He even went so far as to insist the Glick's have the piece

he sold them last night authenticated, which was a pretty

shrewd move in building a defense. If it comes up as stolen,

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which I bet my bottom dollar it will, his lawyer would make a

big deal out of the fact that Farnsworth was the one who

insisted that it be authenticated.

"I'm not sure if he thinks we're a bunch of rubes, but

whatever game he's playing, I'd say he'd played it before and

is pretty good at it."

"Did you ask anything about Grant?"

"A lawyer with a few more cases under his belt and who

read the papers would probably have shut us down the

minute we mentioned Jefferson's name, but this guy didn't

catch on right away. We approached it by asking Farnsworth

if he had an associate named Grant Jefferson. He hedged at

first but then admitted having known him, claiming he briefly

worked for Farnsworth as an 'assistant,' but that he'd been

fired for incompetence. He denied having any contact with

him after Atlanta. He said he didn't know where Jefferson had

gone after leaving Atlanta, and acted surprised to learn he'd

moved here and been murdered.

"We're going trace his every movement from the time he

first got into town, and if we can tie him to Jefferson in any

way, we will. We can check for exactly when he arrived, cab

company pickups and deliveries, car rental agencies, hotel

registrations, phone calls to and from his hotel room—well,

you get the idea."

I got it. "So, what's your gut feeling on whether he had

anything to do with Grant's death?"

He sighed. "I honestly don't have one. He makes his living

conning people, and that kind of guy is very hard to read. But

given his history with Jefferson and the coincidence of his

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showing up here a day or so before Jefferson's murder ... At

least we have him in custody, and I doubt he'll be going

anywhere any time soon. We'll figure it out."

I was sure they would, but that still left me up in the air.

Should I assume it was Farnsworth and close the book on the

case, or keep checking out any other possibilities? Not that I

saw that many unturned stones. While I don't believe in

heaven or hell, I think I'd prefer spending eternity in either

one of those places rather than in limbo.

* * * *

That evening Jonathan mentioned that he'd had lunch with

Eric, which for some reason rather surprised me.

"For somebody who has a full-time job, that guy sure gets

around during the day," I said.

He nodded. "Yeah, he had to take a special order of

something-or-other from the warehouse to their store on

Placid. It was around lunch time, so he called and we got

together."

"Well, I'm glad you had a chance to see him."

"Me, too."

He seemed a little pensive.

"A problem?" I asked as we sat on the couch and flipped

on the TV for the evening news.

"No, not really," he said unconvincingly, then added,

"Maybe I shouldn't take that job with Mrs. Conrad."

I looked at him, puzzled. "Why in the world not? You

already told her you would."

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He sighed. "Yeah, but it will take so much time away from

my being with you and Joshua, and I was thinking..."

I detected a little more behind it. "You were thinking?"

He glanced at me. "Well, I was telling Eric about it, and he

really thinks that it's not fair for me to leave you with all the

responsibility for Joshua while I'm gone so much and..."

I reached out and laid my hand on his leg. "Look, I'm sure

Eric is only concerned for you, but I think I'm in a little better

position than he is to know what's fair and not fair here. If

things get too tough to manage by myself, you'll be the very

first to know."

He laid his hand on mine and looked at me full-on. "Yeah,

you're right. But I do worry."

"Well, don't."

"Eric has a thing for you," he said with a small grin.

"Oh, come on!" I protested, though it confirmed what I'd

suspected. I was a bit embarrassed to realize it was evident

to Jonathan, even though he had mentioned it before.

"No, he does! I don't mind. I mean, it makes me feel all

the more lucky that I've got you and nobody else does. I even

teased him about it, but I don't think he likes to be teased."

"Well, you certainly don't have anything to worry about," I

said.

"I know."

* * * *

The following Tuesday was the first chorus practice after

the concert, and Jonathan was almost an hour late getting

home. Joshua and I had been absorbed in playing games, and

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I lost track of the time. He was still up when Jonathan came

in, and Jonathan was less than happy about it.

"Why are you still up, Joshua?" he asked. "It's way past

your bedtime. You've got school tomorrow."

"Uncle Dick and I were playing," Joshua said, defensively.

"Well, Uncle Dick should know better than to keep you up

so late. Come on, let's get you ready for bed."

With that, he took Joshua by the hand and led him into the

bedroom, leaving me staring after them and wondering what

was going on.

When we finally got Joshua to sleep and returned to the

living room, I asked what had set him off and why he'd been

late. I could sense something was wrong.

"You know how cranky he gets the next day when he stays

up too late," Jonathan said.

"I'm sorry, babe, I really didn't realize how late it was

getting. I expected you home an hour ago."

He immediately softened, then sighed and said, "I'm sorry

I didn't call, Dick. A bunch of us stood around talking after

the rehearsal, and I didn't realize how much time had passed.

Mister Rothenberger told everyone tonight about Mister Booth

withdrawing his financial support."

Apparently reading my thoughts, he hastened to continue.

"Mister Rothenberger didn't say why or go into detail, only

that he'd withdrawn it, which means we probably won't be

able to go to Chicago. He didn't say that specifically, but

everyone knows. He didn't tell us until the end of the

rehearsal."

Probably a wise move on his part, I thought..

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"He was very matter-of-fact about it, but he had to have

been really upset. I know everyone else was. Everybody was

speculating about it. Some think that Mister Rothenberger

and Mister Booth might have gotten into another argument

over something, though I can't imagine what, now that

Grant's dead. When one of the guys said Mister Booth

probably withdrew because the chorus reminded him too

much of Grant's death, a couple of the other guys laughed—

which I didn't think was very nice of them."

"But Roger didn't specifically say the Chicago trip was off?"

"Well, no, but I don't know how we can go without Mister

Booth's help. And if we don't go, I know that a couple guys

might drop out."

"Their loss," I said, quite sure he was right. "If the only

reason somebody stays with the chorus is for a trip to

Chicago, you're probably better off without them."

He took a deep breath and let it out in a long sigh. "Yeah,

you're right. But a lot of the guys are really upset, especially

Eric. You know how much the chorus means to him."

"Nothing's going to happen to the chorus," I said. "Trust

me." I realized even as I said it I had no guarantee that what

I said was true.

While there was no question but that the withdrawal of

Booth's financial support was bad news, how bad it might be I

wasn't in a position to say. Rothenberger hadn't mentioned it

when I'd talked with him. I had a lot of questions as to how

and when all this came about and wanted to talk to him for

details. The fact that it had nothing whatever to do with who

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killed Grant and was therefore absolutely none of my business

didn't stand in my way. It never did.

Jonathan was involved, however peripherally, and that's

what mattered. I wanted to know what was going on and

why.

* * * *

The first thing I did Wednesday morning was call

Rothenberger, hoping he'd be home and up. Luckily, he was.

"Rothenberger here."

"Roger ... Dick Hardesty. Jonathan told me about

Crandall's withdrawing his financial support from the chorus. I

know you couldn't go into detail in front of the chorus, but I

was wondering if you'd mind my asking his reasons?"

There was a rather long pause, followed by a sigh. "All I

know is what little he told me in a cursory phone call and

what I subsequently read in the copy I received of the letter

he sent to the chorus's board, something about financial

reversals and cash flow problems.

"Given Crandall's notorious gambling addiction—he tries to

hide it, but it's common knowledge—I wouldn't be surprised if

that were partially true. But nonetheless, once Grant was

gone, it was inevitable, and even Crandall didn't try to claim

that his supposed grief had anything at all to do with it.

"Perhaps my paranoia's showing, but it does seem that it

was timed to do the utmost damage to me and to the chorus.

I'm sure he is convinced that the chorus will simply fold

without his money."

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"And did you try to talk to him personally after that?" I

asked.

He gave a scornful snort. "No. I wouldn't give him the

satisfaction. I understand he has already taken on another

protege who I hear is interested in stock car racing. I'm quite

sure that, were he interested in singing, Crandall would still

be supporting the chorus and finding other ways to show his

contempt for me."

I could certainly understand his bitterness. Booth had

insinuated his way into the chorus through his little gettogethers

and the promise of underwriting the Chicago trip.

Then, having gotten the members used to his largesse, he'd

tried to usurp Rothenberger's control by insisting Grant be

given special treatment. When that didn't work and Grant was

murdered, he'd turned his interests to other things as quickly

and easily as he'd flip a light switch.

I didn't know really what more I could say at this point, so

I thanked him for his time and hung up.

The phone had no sooner touched the cradle when it rang.

"Hardesty Investigations," I said, picking it back up

without waiting for the second ring.

"Dick, Marty. I have some news on Ferguson you might

find interesting. He claims he has an alibi for the time of

Jefferson's murder, but it's a pretty weak one."

"Yeah?" I noted a mild rush of adrenaline. "What's that?"

"He admits he was in town on the twentieth, but claims

that he'd picked up a hustler around six and dropped him off

at quarter to eight, which would cover him for the time of the

murder."

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"Convenient," I said. "I don't suppose they exchanged

addresses and phone numbers."

Marty laughed. "Uh, no. He says the hustler's name is Joey

and he picked him up on Genessee, a block or so down from a

bar called Hughie's."

"I know the place."

"Figured you might. Anyway, we checked out Hughie's and

a couple of the other hustler bars. Not surprisingly, nobody

had ever heard of Joey."

"Did Farnsworth give a description of this guy?"

"Butch, five-eleven, torn jeans, black skintight T-shirt..."

"Well, that rules out all but about seventy-five percent of

the hustlers in the city," I said. "Anything else?"

"Yeah. Farnsworth says the guy had a small tattoo of a

mouse on the inside of his right wrist."

A mouse tattoo on the inside of his right wrist? Bingo! And

thank you, Small World!

"I know him!" I blurted, then quickly added, "I mean, I

think I know who he is. I saw him at Hughie's."

"Gee," Marty said dryly, "I can't imagine why the

bartender there said he didn't have any idea who we were

talking about."

"Old habits die hard," I said.

"So what can you tell me about this guy?"

"Nothing, actually. He hit on me last time I was in there."

"You go to hustler bars often?"

"No, I was there looking for clues on Jefferson's death."

"In a hustler bar? Jefferson was a hustler?"

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"No, no," I said. "It's a gay thing ... you couldn't be

expected to understand."

"Gee, thanks."

"You know what I mean." I knew he did and was pulling

my leg. "Anyway, he fits your description, and I remember

the tattoo. I can go back there this afternoon and see if I can

find out anything more about him."

"I'd appreciate that," Marty said. "I'm going to try to get

out of here at five for a change, so if you can't get back to me

tonight, I'll call you first thing in the morning."

After hanging up, I had two choices. One was to call

Jonathan and tell him I'd be a little late getting home, then

wait around here until four-thirty or so to go down to Hughie's

in the hopes that—what was the name the guy used?—Joey

might show up, though I wouldn't be able to stay long

because it was Jonathan's school night. Alternatively, I could

go down around three in hopes Bud would be on duty and ask

him what he knew about the guy.

I opted for the latter course of action.

I had no doubt but that Bud knew who Joey was despite

his unwillingness to tell the police. Bud would also probably

know when he'd be most likely to come by, or where he might

hang out when he wasn't in the bar. Marty said Farns-worth

told him he'd picked Joey up on Genessee, which is a couple

blocks from Hughie's in the opposite direction from my office;

it was one of the busiest pick-up areas in town.

* * * *

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Hughie's was all but deserted, with only three or four

regulars and one identifiable hustler, a guy I'd seen around

for years. He had to be coming up on his mid-thirties now—

pretty old for a hustler—and the years had not been kind. I

remembered what a beauty he had been when he was

younger, and part of me ached to think he was still at it.

Vestiges of his looks remained, but they had a leatherskinned

and hardened quality.

I fished my billfold out of my pocket before I reached the

bar, and Bud had my napkin and frothy mug waiting by the

time I got there.

"How's it goin', Dick?"

"Fine, Bud. You?"

The usual shrug. "Can't complain."

He turned to get back to whatever it was he'd been doing

when I came it, but I stopped him.

"I'm looking for one of your customers," I said.

"Which one?"

"I think he goes by Joey. Nice-looking, dresses like he's

doing a fifties musical—torn jeans, tight black T-shirt..."

"Yeah, I know him. Cops were asking about him the other

day."

He didn't ask what the cops might want him for, but I

wouldn't expect that he would. Bud wasn't the curious type.

"Does he come in regularly?" I asked.

"Couple times a week. He usually hangs out on Genessee."

"Has he been in lately?"

"Not for a couple of days, so I'd guess he's due."

"Any particular time?"

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"Sometimes around seven, sometimes around ten. Varies.

I think he only comes in when the street traffic's off."

I wasn't about to spend all my time sitting around waiting

for him.

"Tell you what ... could you do me a favor?" I reached into

my pocket for a business card. "When you see him, could you

give him this and tell him I'd like to talk to him? Tell him it's

worth a twenty for the call."

"Sure," he said, pocketing the card. I took a ten out my

billfold and passed it to him. "To cover your expenses," I said.

He gave me a slightly raised eyebrow and the hint of a smile,

putting the bill in the same pocket as the card without

comment.

I took my time finishing my beer and headed back to pick

up my car from the lot across from work and went home.

* * * *

With Joshua tucked in for the night, Jonathan and I sat on

the sofa watching tv while he wound down from his evening

class. When the local news came on, I was reaching for the

remote to turn off the set when my finger was frozen in midmotion

by a photo of Crandall Booth on the screen.

"Prominent auto dealer Crandall Booth was found dead at

his Central Imports dealership, apparently the victim of a

homicide..."

The screen switched to the parking lot of Central Imports,

where a large area of one side of the outside wall of the main

showroom was cordoned off with yellow police tape.

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"Police are releasing no information as to the cause or

circumstances surrounding the death."

[Back to Table of Contents]

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CHAPTER TWELVE

Needless to say, I didn't get much sleep Wednesday night.

Booth's death could conceivably have been totally coincidental

to his having withdrawn his financial support of the chorus the

day before—a botched robbery or mugging, say. Yet I was

certain the klieg lights of suspicion had swung directly back to

the chorus, though with a narrower beam—Rothenberger and

... and who? The only member of the chorus itself who might

have a sufficient grudge against Booth would be ... Eric? But

either Rothenberger or Eric a killer? Sorry, I couldn't buy it.

The one thing I could buy was that if Farnsworth's story

panned out, he was all but eliminated as Grant's killer.

Square one, anyone?

I finally got to sleep around three a.m. after convincing

myself there was absolutely no point running off in all

directions until I knew more of exactly what had happened

and what the police knew—and would be willing to tell me.

Ah, but you've forgotten Charles Stapleton, a mind-voice

pointed out as I felt myself relaxing. He had a good reason to

see Booth dead.

Maybe, but if he wanted him dead, why wait until now?

another replied.

With effort, I was able to get them to shut up and finally

drifted off to sleep.

* * * *

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Despite my having had little sleep, I was up in time to

catch the early morning news, which not surprisingly had

Booth's death as its lead local item. Basically a rerun of the

footage from the night before, read by the morning news

anchor, the only new bit of information—if it could be called

that—was that it appeared to be a robbery gone bad. His

body was found next to his car in the parking lot adjacent to

the main building; his empty wallet was found a few feet

away. A police spokesman surmised he had been struck from

behind with a blunt instrument while getting into his car after

working late. The police were investigating.

I left for work early in a dull drizzle that pretty much

matched my mood and was on my third cup of coffee when

Marty called.

"You heard about Booth?" he asked.

"Yeah, which pretty much lets Farnsworth off the hook."

"Why would you say that? We don't know—yet—that

there's any connection between the two deaths, and as far as

we know Booth and Farnsworth never even met. There's no

way, even if they had met, that he could have killed Booth,

but I wouldn't be so quick to rule him out on Jefferson."

He was absolutely right.

"So, did you and Dan get Booth's case?" I asked.

"No, Dan's brother Earl and his partner got the honors."

"Oh, great!" I think I mentioned earlier that Earl

Carpenter's partner, Ben Couch, hated my guts—the feeling

was mutual—and wouldn't give me the time of day let alone

any information he might have on the investigation. "Do you

know anything you can tell me about what's going on with it?"

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Marty sighed. "Earl plays it close to the vest, and Ben is

wrapped pretty tight, but I'll see if they can tell me anything.

Right now, I really don't know very much other than that the

cause of death was one blow to the back of the head with a

blunt instrument, which hasn't been found. Motive apparently

robbery; they found his billfold—empty—and keys on the

ground near the body. A tan line on his wrist indicated he'd

been wearing a watch.

"It appears as though he was getting in the car when he

was attacked. If the killer knew who Booth was, he could

easily have taken the keys and gone into the building to look

for more money, or gone into the key box in the showroom

and driven off with any car on the lot. Or he could have taken

Booth's car, for that matter. But he didn't, which indicates to

me—at least at first glance—that it was a screwed-up robbery

by somebody who didn't know the victim and wasn't very

bright.

"I might know something more later in the day, and I'll call

you if I do."

"I'd really appreciate that, Marty," I said. "So, what do we

do in the meantime about Farnsworth?"

"I say we go where we were headed before Booth got

himself killed for now. Did you get a chance to follow up on

his alibi?"

I quickly filled him in on what I'd found out from Bud

during my visit to Hughie's.

"Did you get anything more from Farnsworth?"

"Not really. He's sticking to his story. And we did verify

that he'd rented a car from the nineteenth to the twenty-first.

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When we asked where they'd gone to transact business, he

claims they drove all the way out to Prichert Park. Granted,

that's a pretty popular cruising area, but it's a long way off

the beaten path. If he'd taken the guy to a motel or

somewhere where they'd been seen, it would have given his

alibi a lot more solid basis."

"Well, he had no way of knowing he'd need an alibi," I

pointed out.

"That's what he said, too. But if that Joey character can

verify his alibi, I'd really like to find him. I can tell Earl, and

he and Ben can start looking for him."

"Why don't you hold off a bit and see if he calls me first.

He might be a little more willing to talk to me than to the

police."

"Do you think he'll call?"

"If he thinks there's money in it, I think the odds are

pretty good," I said. "But we'll have to wait and see. I'll get

back to you the minute I hear from him, though. I assume

Farnsworth's been arraigned on the stolen property charge?"

"Yeah, day before yesterday," Marty affirmed. "He was

denied bail because of being a flight risk, so he'd not going

anywhere. No trial date set yet—the court docket is really

backed up right now—so I think we've probably got several

weeks yet. I hope by that time..."

"You and me both," I said.

* * * *

So maybe Booth's death was one of those detective-novel

coincidences, but deep down, I didn't believe it. Marty

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apparently wasn't giving much thought yet to the idea that if

it was the same guy who killed Grant—and specifically, if it

was someone from the chorus—they wouldn't have had any

particular interest in breaking into the showroom or stealing a

car. His purpose would have been to kill Booth, and that he

did, then emptied Booth's wallet and took his watch to make

it look like a robbery.

At three-thirty, the phone rang.

"Hardesty Investigations," I said after the third ring.

"This is Joey. I'm calling about the twenty bucks."

Well, now, the day just got interesting.

"You're at Hughie's now?" I heard the click of what I

assumed to be pool balls and muffled voices in the

background. The pay phone is on the wall nearest the pool

table. I figured he had probably decided to try his luck at

Hughie's rather than getting drenched standing on the curb

trolling for johns.

"Yeah. So, you want to meet me here? Maybe we can go

someplace to talk. Like your place?"

Uh, not the best of ideas. "I'll be there in ten minutes," I

said.

* * * *

Though the rain had started by the time I got to work, I'd

left my umbrella in the car and opted to run across the street

to my building, assuming it would clear up before I came out.

It didn't.

Luckily, I had a spare umbrella at the office, but when I

got about halfway to the bar, the drizzle turned into a

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downpour; by the time I walked in the door at Hughie's, the

cuffs of my pants were soaked.

Joey, whom I spotted immediately at the end of the bar

nursing a beer, was apparently not the only street hustler

seeking shelter from the rain; there were three or four others

in varying stages of wetness.

He spotted me, too, though I wasn't sure if it was because

he recognized me or, more likely, just the automatic response

of any hustler when a potential john walked in. I took a bill

out of my wallet as Bud and I vectored in on the seat next to

Joey.

"How's it goin', Bud," I asked as I sat down.

"Same as always," he replied, taking a napkin off a stack

and putting it and my beer in front of me. Taking my money,

he walked off.

"You the guy I just called?" Joey asked. He gave no

indication that he'd ever seen me before, which wasn't

surprising. I'm sure that when you're a hustler a face is a

face. I did not envy Joey doing what he did.

"Yeah," I said. "The name's Dick."

"So I heard," he said. Neither of us extended our hand.

"So, you got someplace to go?"

I wondered if he thought I wanted to see him because I

was interested in his services. Apparently, the words Private

Investigations on my card hadn't clued him in.

"I think we can handle everything right here," I said.

He gave a cursory shrug. "So, what do you want for your

twenty dollars?"

"Information."

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He stared at me, expressionless. "About what?"

"About a guy who picked you up on Genessee late last

month—the twentieth, to be exact. A Tuesday. Guy about

forty, forty-five. Not from here. Greying brown hair. Medium

build. You took him out to Prichert Park."

"You got the twenty?"

I pulled out a bill from my shirt pocket, handing it to him.

He shoved it in his jeans pocket then shook his head.

"Man, are you serious? You know how many guys pick me

up in one week? And you want me to remember one from last

month? No way! And I take a lot of guys out to Prichert Park

if there's noplace else to go."

Well, this is going well, I thought. He was right, though.

He could hardly be expected to remember one nondescript

trick from another.

"He was from New York," I said. "Staying at the Montero."

The glimmer of a light came on behind his eyes, and he

chewed his lower lip for a second or two.

"Oh, yeah. I remember him. The asshole told me he was

staying at the Montero so 'Of course'—that's what he said: 'Of

course'—he couldn't take me there. Like I was some piece of

shit he wouldn't be caught dead showing up there with. I

been there before. Lots of times."

I chose to let that pass without comment, saying instead,

"But you have no idea of the date?"

He shook his head. "Not a clue."

"You went to Prichert Park."

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"Yeah. It's got a couple of places to park where you won't

be seen. But when we got there, I was pissed—they had

blocked off the path to the one spot I always go."

"Blocked off?" I asked.

"Yeah. It looked like somebody had knocked down a power

pole, and an electric company truck was parked right in the

middle of the turnoff."

And we may have a date after all, I thought.

"Would you be willing to tell that to a friend of mine?" I

didn't want to scare him off by mentioning the police.

He looked suspicious anyway.

"A cop?"

"A friend," I repeated. "Don't worry, you're not in any

trouble."

"What's in it for me if I do?"

"Another twenty."

He looked at me. "It's worth more."

"Forty," I said. I knew the police couldn't pay for

information, but I could; and it would be worth it if it could

either nail or clear Farnsworth.

"Fifty."

"Don't push it."

"Fifty," he repeated.

"Only if you show up at my office Monday morning at ten

o'clock sharp." I should have said "tomorrow," but since it

was already late Thursday afternoon, I wanted to talk to

Marty first and be sure he could be there.

"You still have my card?" I asked.

He patted his pocket and nodded.

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I chugged my remaining beer, picked up my umbrella and

got off the stool.

"Ten o'clock," I repeated.

"Yep," he agreed, and with a wave to Bud, I left. It was

still raining.

Hoping to catch Marty before he went home, I returned to

the office rather than just getting my car and going home. A

message from him was waiting on my machine, and I called

him immediately. Luckily, he was still there.

"Had a chance to talk to Earl Carpenter for a second a few

minutes ago," he said. "They'd been interviewing people all

day, including Booth's latest 'house guest,' who seemed more

upset by losing Booth's promised sponsorship for his racing

career than by Booth's being dead. He had an alibi for

Wednesday night, so I mentioned they might want to check

with Charles Stapleton. I'm sure they would have gotten

around to him eventually anyway, but I thought they could

use a heads-up. Anything new from your end?"

I told him of my meeting with Joey, and he confirmed he

could be at my office Monday morning. He said it was

probably too late in the day to check with the power company

to see if they could give him an exact date and time their

truck repaired a broken power pole in Prichert Park, but that

he would call tomorrow. If the power company records did not

show a truck being there on the twentieth, Farnsworth was

still a viable suspect. But if they had been there on anywhere

between six and seven at night, he was pretty much off the

hook, and I would be right back on familiar ground—square

one.

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We agreed it would probably be best for Marty to come

alone Monday to avoid intimidating Joey by having too many

people present.

"Oh, and one thing while I think of it," I said. "I'd assume

Carpenter and Couch are looking into Booth's gambling

problem as a possible key?"

"I'm sure they are," Marty said. "But thanks."

* * * *

The weekend was hectic, as they increasingly seemed to

be, though being busy kept my mind from spending every

minute thinking about the case and how little I had actually

accomplished on it.

I picked Joshua up from day care on Friday so Jonathan

could load his car up with materials and several flats of plants

to take over to start his landscaping job at the Conrads' on

Saturday. He left the apartment right after breakfast

Saturday morning.

His absence meant that Joshua and I were left to our own

devices as far as dealing with our usual Saturday routine of

cleaning, laundry and grocery shopping. The latter was

enough of a chore with two adults riding herd on a five-yearold

boy who never met a breakfast cereal, bakery item or

junk-food snack he didn't like. I considered duct-taping him

to the shopping cart but was afraid I'd get nasty looks from

the other shoppers.

If I've ever given anyone the impression Joshua was a

little too good to be true, I can assure you one trip to the

grocery store on a bad day would dissuade anyone of that

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notion. While he was, overall, an exceptionally good kid, there

were times when I could have cheerfully throttled him; and

being the showman that he was, he always seemed to pick a

time when there was a crowd around to throw out a field test

of the limits of my patience. Grocery stores therefore tended

to become the Coliseum with Joshua and I as the featured

gladiators.

Probably because Jonathan wasn't there to back me up,

Joshua decided it was a good time for an encounter, and put

a jar of pickled eggs in the shopping cart. I took it out, told

him we didn't need pickled eggs and to return it to the shelf.

Let the games begin! Apparently not intimidated by the

fact that I had a hundred and some pounds and a couple of

feet in height over him, he put the jar back in the cart. I took

it out and handed it to him, telling him to put it back.

Defiantly: back in the cart. I finally took it back to the shelf

myself, which opened the floodgates.

At that serendipitous moment, a woman came by carrying

a crying baby and followed by a boy about eight or nine. I

knelt in front of Joshua and took him by the shoulders.

"You see that baby and that big boy?" I asked. "Which one

do you want to be?"

Slowly, the storm abated and we got on with the shopping.

I know it might seem that I spend far too much time

talking about Joshua, but he's become a major factor in my

life. There's no way to separate him from what goes on.

My life had changed profoundly in the past five years. First

came Jonathan to yank me out of what I call my "slut phase,"

in which I spent a great deal of time hopping from bed to bed.

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I thought that was a sea-change, and it was. Then came

Joshua.

I've always had a strong protective streak, often verging,

as Jonathan can readily attest, on the over-protective. But

being protective of a partner isn't the same as being

protective of a child. Although Joshua is not genetically

related to me, I had come to consider that fact less and less;

and for the first time in my life I felt I could fully appreciate

how heterosexuals feel about their own children.

So, we made it through the day and had the table set and

dinner preparations well under way when Jonathan arrived

home around six, looking as though he had lost a mudwrestling

contest. He immediately went into the shower while

Joshua helped me with dinner. With Joshua's enthusiastic

approval, I opted for an old family recipe from my single

days—knockwurst (I know, we'd had it within a week or so

before, but we all liked them) slit lengthwise and stuffed with

sharp cheddar cheese, over which a teriyaki marinade was

poured. I'd picked up some fresh potato salad at the store to

add one more element of class to the meal.

Jonathan was very happy with how the day had gone.

"It's really going to look great," he enthused over dinner,

"and Mrs. Conrad seems very happy with what I'm doing."

"How could she not be?" I said. "You're terrific!"

He grinned. "And you're only slightly prejudiced."

"I think you're terrific, too," Joshua said, his good-kid

personality back in place and not wanting to be left out on the

chance for a bit of mutual admiration action.

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"Thank you, Joshua," Jonathan said, soberly. "I appreciate

that."

Joshua grinned.

I could tell Jonathan was exhausted, and he nodded off

while we were watching TV prior to Joshua's bedtime. As a

result, we went to bed not long after Joshua did.

* * * *

I had to make a quick stop at the bank to pick up some

cash on my way to work Monday morning, assuming Joey

would show up—and I was pretty confident he would.

In fact, everything went like clockwork. Marty showed up

at 9:52 saying he had put a call in to the electric company on

Friday and hoped to hear back later in the day. Dan Carpenter

was using the time to question Farnsworth once more about

the details of his alibi to see if he might mention the fallen

power pole or the electric company truck.

Joey arrived at 10:05 in what I thought of as his full work

uniform, and I wondered if he ever wore—or had—anything

else. He was aware Marty was a cop, even though he was in

plain clothes. Obviously anxious for his fifty dollars and to get

on with his day, he told Marty exactly what he had told me.

Though he still couldn't describe what Farnsworth looked like,

remember the kind of car Farnsworth drove or state with

certainly the exact time they got to Prichert Park or

Farnsworth dropped him off back on Genessee, he did

remember that the guy who'd picked him up was staying at

the Montero, and stuck to his recollection of the pole and the

truck.

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When he'd finished his story, I handed him an envelope

with the fifty dollars in it and he opened it to check it before

standing up to shove it in his back pocket.

"I gotta get going," he said. He turned, went to the door

without looking back and left.

Marty sat looking after him and shaking his head. Then he

turned to me and said, "One more soldier in the Army of the

Lost."

I don't know why, but I was struck by the wistfulness and

insight of his observation.

"I'll bet you write poetry when no one's looking, don't

you?"

He shrugged and grinned. "Gays don't have a corner on

the market on being sensitive, you know."

He was right, but I was surprised, nonetheless. There are

certain jobs I could never do simply because of the constant

exposure to pain, sorrow, death and the worst life has to

offer. I ran into enough of that as it was. How health care

workers and police manage to do their jobs without having all

the sensitivity stomped out of them I couldn't imagine.

Obviously, most of them are able to handle it, and I have

the utmost respect for them. I'd liked Marty before, and now

my admiration had been bumped up another notch.

It was clear the police investigation into Grant's death was

also teetering on whether Farnsworth/Johnson/Smith's alibi

held up. Marty told me they still had not completely ruled out

either Charles Stapleton or the now-deceased Crandall Booth,

but that they had not yet come up with anything concrete.

As he was getting up to leave, the phone rang.

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"Hardesty Investigations," I said in my best Professional

Private Investigator voice, evoking a slight smile from Marty.

"Dick, it's Dan Carpenter. Is Marty still there?"

"Yeah," I said. "Hold a sec." I handed the phone to him as

he leaned across the desk to take it.

"Yeah? ... I'm just leaving ... Yeah ... Yeah? ... Okay. See

you in a while."

He handed the phone back to me with a shrug. "Well,

Farnsworth remembers the truck, so if it was there around

the time of Jefferson's murder, I guess we've just lost our

prime suspect. I'll let you know as soon as I hear from the

electric company."

He left me with the firm conviction—however lacking in

actual evidence it might be—that Grant Jefferson's killer and

Crandall Booth's killer were one and the same. Now all I had

to do was one: find out who that one person was, and two:

prove it.

The police had only begun their investigation into Booth's

death, but it occurred to me having two different sets of

detectives working independently of one another on one

murder was counterproductive. It would have been far more

logical for only one team—preferably Marty and Dan,

considering my relationship with Detective Couch—to handle

both cases, and I couldn't imagine I was the only one to

immediately see the two murders were related.

But then, I'm not the one who makes the determination of

who gets assigned to which case and why. And granted,

Booth's murder appeared at first glance to be a robbery.

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When the call came in, I'm sure no one had the time to sit

down and wonder if it might be related to another murder.

Perhaps they would see the error of their ways and

consolidate their investigations, especially if the links between

the two became more evident than they now were to

everyone but me.

I sat down at my desk with yet another cup of coffee and

opened the windows of my mind. In Grant's murder, the

potential-suspect list included practically every member of the

chorus, Stapleton, Jerry Granville, Roger Rothenberger,

Farnsworth/Johnson/Smith and Crandall Booth.

But with Booth dead, the list shrank considerably. Several

members of the chorus had a strong motive to kill Grant, but

I couldn't see any of them, or Jerry Granville, having that

same level of animosity toward Booth, whom most of them

barely knew.

So. that left me with...

Charles Stapleton had good reason to want both Booth and

Grant dead, though, if he were going to kill them both, he

could have figured out a way to get them at the same time,

or one right after the other. No, as I'd considered earlier, the

fact that Booth was killed so soon after his withdrawal of

support from the chorus linked his murder more closely to the

chorus than to his business and Stapleton.

Roger Rothenberger had motive to see both Grant and

Booth dead, though I honestly couldn't bring myself to think

of him as a murderer. Still, very few people walk around

wearing a sign saying "Potential Murderer." I'm sure Death

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Row is sprinkled with some really nice guys who, for whatever

reason, murdered someone.

The pressures on Rothenberger as director of both the

chorus and the M.C.C.'s choir had to be tremendous without

the added headaches of people like Grant and Booth trying to

undermine or destroy everything he'd worked for.

It was also conceivable that, despite what I believed,

Booth's death might, in fact, have been a random act of

coincidental, albeit an on-the-brink-of-disbelief-coincidental,

violence.

One avenue I had not explored and had no practical or

immediate way of exploring was that of Booth's possible

gambling addiction. It was quite possible that his letter to the

board about financial reversals and cash-flow problems might

have had more validity than Rothenberger realized. For

someone like Booth to admit to having financial problems

might well indicate their seriousness. Could he have gotten in

over his head with the wrong people and suffered the

consequences?

I made a note to ask Marty to follow up on what detectives

Carpenter and Couch might have found out about it. If, by

some chance gambling was behind Booth's murder, that

meant it and Grant's death were unrelated, which meant...

Why the hell does life have to be so complicated?

* * * *

Not a word from Marty on Tuesday, and I didn't want to

make too big a nuisance of myself by calling him. I knew he'd

get in touch when he had something to tell me. I

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concentrated instead on the eternal and losing battle to

control my impatience.

Jonathan was off to rehearsal right after dinner, and I

awaited his take on the current gossip, which I was sure

would center almost totally around Crandall Booth's death.

Sure enough, it did.

Jonathan returned later than usual with an ample supply.

Someone—he didn't say who—had somehow heard about

Booth's gambling problems, which sparked a couple more,

supposedly involving Grant's having bragged several times

about the amount of money he and Booth spent on their trips

to Las Vegas. There was widespread, if totally unjustified,

bitterness that the chorus had to suffer by losing the Chicago

trip because of Booth's gambling. Everything Booth had done

for the chorus over the years immediately took a back seat to

what he didn't do for them.

Human beings are an odd species.

When I caught Jonathan nodding off during the late news,

I realized that everything he'd been doing lately was taking

its toll. I turned off the TV and got off the couch, leaning

forward to take his hand and waking him up in the process.

"Too bad you're not in the mood for a little game-playing,"

I teased.

He grinned. "Wanna bet?"

I was happy to lose.

* * * *

Marty called around ten Wednesday morning.

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"I meant to get back to you yesterday," he said, "but

wanted to follow up on a couple other things first."

"Hey, no problem. I appreciate your telling me what you

can when you can. What did you find out?"

"Two things, actually. A patrol car on a late-night drunk

sweep picked up a wino wearing a very expensive watch with

the initials C.D.B. engraved on the back. The manager at

Central Imports identified it as Booth's. The wino claims he

found it in a dumpster on Hawthorn, about five miles from

Central Imports.

"And some kid tried to use one of Booth's credit cards at a

convenience store on School. He ran out when the clerk

questioned it. So, it looks like the robbery motive won't wash,

and that the items were taken to make it look like one.

"Second, and more significant, Earl and Ben checked with

a couple of the major bookies in town, and it appears Booth

was a big-time player who'd been on a serious losing streak

in the past few months. Rumor has it he got in pretty deep

with Charlie Tours—you know him?"

"A loan shark, right?"

"Not merely a loan shark. Charlie's the great white of our

local loan sharks. He has a rap sheet three feet long and a

history of playing rough. They're going to have a talk with

him as soon as they can find him. They're also looking into

the state of Booth's finances."

A bell went off in my head. There was something Charles

Stapleton had said when I first talked to him. Something that

had gone right by me until now. What the hell was it?

My father spent fifteen years trying to keep Booth afloat.

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It hadn't meant a thing at the time, but now that I knew of

Booth's gambling debts...

"You might have them talk to Charles Stapleton about

that," I suggested. "His dad was Booth's chief accountant,

and if there were problems, he surely had an idea of them.

Maybe he mentioned them to Charles before he died."

"Good idea," Marty replied. "Thanks."

We hung up shortly thereafter, and I sat pondering Marty's

information. Even though they had confirmed that Booth

might well have been in serious debt to Charlie Tours and

others, the fact was that for a loan shark, even a great white,

to kill a client was somewhat counterproductive to getting

money back from them. A broken leg, perhaps, might

encourage the client to find a way to repay what is owed, but

it's difficult to get money from a dead man. And Booth had

plenty of assets he could have cashed in on—unless his

financial situation was a lot worse than anyone suspected.

The phone interrupted my thoughts.

"Hardesty Investigations."

Silence, then a click and a dial tone.

I hate people who don't at least have the decency, when

they get a wrong number, to say "Sorry, wrong number"

before hanging up.

At eleven-thirty, as I was thinking about lunch, there was

a knock on my door. I wasn't expecting anyone, and

prospective clients seldom dropped in without calling first.

"Come," I said.

The door opened, and Eric stepped in. "I'd love to," he said

with a big grin.

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"Well, this is a surprise," I said truthfully.

"I should have called first," he said, coming over to my

desk, "but I wasn't near a phone. I had to deliver a special

order to our store down the street, and when I realized how

close I was to your office, I thought I'd see if I could buy you

lunch."

"That's nice of you, Eric, but..."

He looked mildly chagrined. "Oh, I'm sorry. You've

probably got plans."

"No, not at all," I said, "but you certainly don't have to buy

me lunch."

"Sure I do. You guys have been really nice to me, and this

is the least I can do."

"Well, okay," I said. "I guess it is time for lunch. Where

would you like to go? There aren't all that many places right

around here, other than the diner off the lobby."

"That's fine with me."

"Okay," I said, getting up from my chair. "You want to go

now? I imagine you have to get back to work soon."

"I've got time," he said. "But now's as good as ever."

* * * *

Neither of us said much as we rode down on the elevator,

which I found mildly uncomfortable. I really didn't know what

to say, which made me even more uncomfortable, and Eric

was uncharacteristically quiet.

Finally, seated at one of the diner's red plastic-upholstered

booths, I said, "So, what do you think of Crandall Booth's

death?"

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He looked up from his menu and directly into my eyes.

"Couldn't have happened to a nicer guy."

"I'm sorry?" I said and, he grinned.

"Crandall was a prick, pulling the rug out from under the

chorus like he did."

"Aren't you being a little unfair?" I was a little surprised by

the intensity of his reaction. "He did a lot for the chorus."

Eric shrugged. "That he did. But I think we'd have been

better off if he'd never gotten involved with it in the first

place. Teasing us along, promising us things, getting us to

depend on him—not because he gave a damn for the chorus,

but so he could throw his weight around. Roger would have

kicked Grant out of the chorus the very first time he started

pulling his shit if it wasn't for Crandall. Roger knew exactly

what Crandall was doing, but he wasn't able to do anything

about it for fear Crandall would do exactly what he ended up

doing anyway."

The waitress came to take our orders.

"What do you recommend?" Eric asked.

"I usually get the BLT, it's pretty good."

"Sold." He smiled at the waitress and said, "I'll have a BLT

and a Coke."

"Same for me," I said, "but make it milk." When she'd

gone, I said, "So, any ideas on who might have killed

Crandall?"

He looked at me carefully before saying, "Yeah, I do. Word

is he was killed because he owed more in gambling debts

than he could pay. And I'll bet Grant was killed as a warning

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to Crandall to pay up. When it didn't work, they killed him,

too."

Well, that was an interesting theory, and one that had

never occurred to me but should have. I was mildly ticked at

myself that it hadn't. It made some sense, except for the

basic fact that while killing Grant might have been meant as a

warning to Booth it still didn't make sense to kill Booth.

"Interesting idea," I said. "And at least it would take all the

pressure off the chorus."

"Right!" Eric said. "And I never believed for one minute

that anyone from the chorus could have done it."

I decided not to pursue the subject any further, but I

didn't have to. Out of thin air, Eric asked, "So, how are you

and Jonathan getting along?"

That one caught me totally by surprise. "Fine," I said.

"What made you ask?"

The waitress appeared with our food. Nothing was said

until she left, but I certainly was curious.

"Oh, nothing," he said. "Jonathan mentioned that you'd

had a fight last week."

A fight? What the hell was he talking about? I searched my

memory for a clue.

"We had an argument," I said, remembering what he must

be referring to—Joshua's still being up when Jonathan got

home from chorus practice. "I certainly wouldn't call it a fight.

We argue all the time. It never means anything."

Eric raised an eyebrow. "Sorry," he said. "Guess I

misunderstood. So, no problems?"

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I had no idea why he was asking all this and was definitely

uncomfortable with it.

"No problems."

"Good," he said, and took a large bite out of his BLT.

However, since he'd opened the door to personal lives, I

thought I'd put my foot in the door of his.

"You've never had a relationship?" I asked.

He wiped the corner of his mouth with his napkin and

smiled. "Nobody wants me."

"Bullshit!" I recognized a bid for sympathy when I heard

one. "Not anybody?"

"I've had a string of disasters," he said, "but only one I'd

really qualify as a relationship. He died."

Died? Was that what Rothenberger had meant by Eric's

"tragedies?" I wanted to know more, but didn't think it was

proper of me to ask.

Oh, what the hell.

"I'm really sorry to hear that," I said. "Can I ask what

happened?"

"He killed himself. Is Jonathan your first?"

Non sequitur, anyone? Still, I knew a keep-out sign when I

saw one.

"One other," I said, heeding the sign and taking a sip of

milk. "Chris. Seven years. He lives in New York now. We're

still friends."

"Is Jonathan jealous?"

I laughed. "Jonathan is not the jealous type, thank God.

He and Chris are great friends."

"Well, I'd be jealous."

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Hey, I'm the last person on earth who should criticize

anyone for being the jealous type, but dense though I may

occasionally be, it was pretty clear by this point that Eric was

coming on to me. While my crotch was flattered, the rest of

me was definitely uncomfortable.

We'd been playing this little game of badminton for quite a

while now. He had never come out and directly expressed his

interest, and I had tried as subtly as I could to field his every

serve as gently as possible. The whole thing was compounded

by his friendship with Jonathan. I couldn't imagine Eric would

want to jeopardize it, and while Jonathan had teased me

about Eric's interest, I found it equally hard to imagine he

thought Eric was serious.

Eric was one of the first friends of his own that Jonathan

had made outside of his work. I knew it meant a great deal to

him, and I hated the thought that I might be the cause of a

rift between them. But there was no way in hell I was going

to jeopardize my relationship with Jonathan for anyone or

anything. How could I get that point across to Eric without

hurting his feelings?

Nobody likes rejection—I've been on the wrong end of that

stick more than once myself, and it ain't pretty. But

sometimes there simply is no alternative.

I hadn't quite reached that point with Eric, and hoped it

wouldn't come to that, but it was drawing uncomfortably

close.

We finished our lunch, and Eric insisted on getting both the

bill and the tip.

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As we walked out into the lobby, I said, "Thanks, Eric, I

really appreciate it."

I extended my hand. He stared at it intently for a second,

then grinned and took it.

"My pleasure," he said. "See ya around." And with that he

turned and strolled through the revolving doors and out into

the street.

[Back to Table of Contents]

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CHAPTER THIRTEEN

"I had lunch with Eric today," I told Jonathan at dinner.

"Ah, that's nice," he said. "He told me Tuesday he was

going to try to do it this week if he could. How did it go?"

Uh, okay, Hardesty, your move, a mind voice said.

"Fine," I said. "Did he ever mentioned having had a lover

in his past?"

"No." He was looking at me curiously. "Why?"

"Just wondered. He had an interesting theory on Crandall

Booth's death."

Jonathan shot a significant sideways glance at Joshua, who

was busily building a dam of mashed potatoes to keep the

gravy from running into his peas and apparently not paying

attention to our conversation.

I took the hint and dropped the subject. But later, after he

had returned from class and Joshua was asleep, I felt I had to

say something and hoped I could find the words to say it

right.

"You know, babe," I said, "how you're always teasing me

about Eric's being interested in me?"

He nodded. "Yes?"

"Well ... is there any possibility he might be serious?"

Jonathan jerked his head back and stared at me. "Are you

serious?" he asked. "No way. Eric's my friend, and he'd never

do anything like that. He just likes pulling your leg!"

Maybe, I thought, but I hope it isn't the middle one.

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"Yeah. Okay," I said, "but could you maybe let him know it

makes me a little uncomfortable?"

He shook his head, grinning. "If I did that, he'd only come

on ten times as strong."

"I'm serious. I really wish he wouldn't do it."

"Has he ever come out and asked you to go to bed with

him?"

"Of course not!"

"Well, then, lighten up a little. He's just got a strange

sense of humor."

"Yeah. Strange." I was not convinced.

* * * *

I got a call first thing Thursday morning from one of the

lawyers for whom I did occasional legwork, asking me if I

could drive up to Neeleyville immediately to pick up some

papers from the courthouse and get them to his office by two

that afternoon. There had been some major snafu in getting

them to him, and he had no one else who could do it. I

agreed—it's not like I was up to my ears in pending leads on

Grant/Booth needing instant follow-up.

I was out the door the minute I hung up the phone.

It was a pleasant drive, the weather crisp and clear, and I

always enjoyed the drive through the hills north of the city. I

was tempted to take a little side trip to my favorite scenic

overlook—the one from which Jonathan had scattered the

ashes of his friend Randy (another story)—but the time factor

wouldn't allow it.

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Returning to the city, I went directly to the lawyer's office,

arriving there at one-thirty after spending ten minutes looking

for a parking place. By the time I'd had lunch and got back to

my office, it was almost two-thirty.

There were two calls waiting on my machine: a prospective

client and Marty. I tried Marty first but was told he was out of

the office, so I left a message. Then I talked with the

prospective client who, it appeared, needed a good lawyer

more than he did a PI, and I referred him to a couple. I

always hate passing up the chance for a new client, but I

really couldn't see wasting his money by taking a case just to

take it.

It was nearly four when Marty returned my call.

"Seems like your tip on Stapleton paid off," he said. "They

don't have all the facts yet, but it seems that Booth was

about to lose a couple of his major dealership franchises.

Stapleton says it was only his dad's adept financial

maneuvering that had kept Booth in business this long.

"Apparently, Booth has had a serious gambling addiction

for years, but he kept it hidden. Since he was sole owner of

all his businesses, he didn't have to report to anyone, and

nobody—except maybe for Irving Stapleton—knew what was

really going on."

"Interesting," I said. "I wonder what's going to happen to

his dealerships now. I know that's not our problem, but a lot

of people's jobs are at stake."

"Yeah, it is a shame," Marty said. "But when you build a

house of cards—literally, in Booth's case—it's bound to fall

down."

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"Sad but true," I said. "But I still question how anybody he

might have owed gambling money to stood to gain by having

him dead."

"Unless they realized he was never going to be able to

repay a cent and decided to swat him like a mosquito as an

object lesson to other potential deadbeats."

"I wonder why they kept lending him money when they

knew he could never get out of the hole?"

"Hey, credit card companies do it all the time," Marty

pointed out. "But with Booth, they might not have known just

how bad off he was. All those luxury car dealerships, the big

house—he put up a pretty dazzling front."

I sighed. "I suppose. Well, keep me posted, if you will."

"I will."

I remembered Eric's theory about Grant's possibly having

been killed as a warning to Booth and relayed it to Marty for

what it might be worth.

"Yeah, that is a thought," he said. "I don't know if Earl and

Ben have looked into that angle, since Jefferson wasn't their

case, but I'll definitely mention it to them. Maybe Dan and I

should be working more closely with them in case the two

murders are related. Thanks again for the tip."

We exchanged good-byes and hung up, leaving me with a

definite sense of frustration.

* * * *

So, exactly where did all this leave me? If Booth was killed

for his gambling debts, and if Eric's theory was right that

Grant was killed as a warning to Booth, that meant nobody in

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the chorus was involved and I probably should send the

chorus board a bill for my time and get on with my life. On

the one hand, I didn't want to jump the gun and step away

too soon, though everything did seem to be pointing in that

direction; but on the other, I didn't want to drag it out any

longer than necessary.

Since it was nearly quitting time, I decided to let things

ride until the next day. There was no great rush, after all, and

I could use the time to think things over again for the twentythird

time. Still, I couldn't escape the sneaking suspicion that

I was a pretty piss-poor detective for not having everything

figured out by this time.

* * * *

"So, how was school today, Joshua?" I asked at dinner.

"I've got a girlfriend," he announced, causing me to glance

quickly at Jonathan, who merely rolled his eyes to the ceiling.

I gathered he'd been told earlier.

"A girlfriend, huh?" I asked. "What's her name?"

"Susie," he said. "She's new."

"When did you decide she was your girlfriend?"

"She told me."

I grinned. "She told you?"

He nodded solemnly.

"And what do you think about all this?"

He shrugged. "It's okay."

"Well," I said, "I'm happy for you." And I was really

surprised to realize I wasn't sure whether I was happy or not.

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After Joshua was securely bathed, pajama-ed, bedded,

Story-Timed and asleep, Jonathan and I returned to the living

room.

"What did you make of Joshua's news?" I asked.

He looked at me and smiled. "Susie, you mean?"

I nodded. "Isn't it a little early to have a girlfriend?"

"Well, I really don't think we have to worry about him and

Susie eloping to Las Vegas just yet."

We had talked before about how we might feel if Joshua

turned out straight—and the odds were nine-to-one that he

would. I could now understand how straight parents might

react to their child being gay. We all want our children to be

like we are, and for the child to have a different sexual

orientation than the parents is disconcerting at best.

"Would it really matter to you?" Jonathan asked.

I sighed. "No, not really. We'll love him no matter what.

But I sort of pictured him meeting some nice guy—a doctor,

maybe..."

Jonathan punched me in the arm. "Oh, puh-leez!" he said,

and we started laughing.

* * * *

The first thing Friday morning, I called Glen O'Banyon's

office. I knew from the start of this case that, though I was

hired by the chorus's board of directors, it was Glen who

undoubtedly would be footing most of the bill for my services.

He and Booth were the only board members with considerable

amounts of money, and the chorus operated on a shoestring

except for Booth's not-altogether-altruistic largesse.

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I knew, too, that Booth had opposed my being hired, so

that would leave Glen with the primary financial burden. I'd

decided to talk directly with him as to whether I should bow

out now or leave the books open in case the gambling angle

did not pay off. I was only charging for the time when I was

actually doing something; but leaving the door to the case

open meant I wouldn't have anything to put in the bank until

the door was closed, and at this point I had no idea when that

might be.

Glen wasn't in, but I left a message with Donna asking to

have him call me.

With nothing really to do until I heard from either Marty or

Glen—and it galled me to realize I'd spent far too much time

on this case doing exactly that, waiting for someone else to

do something—I decided to tackle the long-delayed (by a

couple of years, actually) reorganizing/cleaning out of my file

cabinet. As so often happens, I was about ten minutes into it

when I wondered why in hell I'd ever started. But by that

time, with papers and envelopes and folders stacked around

on every exposed surface, it was too late to stop.

I looked on cleaning out file cabinets rather like being on

an archaeological dig, I found things I hadn't seen or even

thought of in years, and hadn't a clue as to why I'd kept most

of them in the first place.

I was returning from dumping the second full waste-basket

of things down the garbage chute when the phone rang.

"Mister Hardesty," Donna's always-professional-butfriendly

voice said, "Mister O'Banyon wonders if you would

like to join him for lunch at Etheridge's at the usual time."

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"I'll be there," I said. "Thank you for calling."

Glancing at my watch, I saw it was coming up on eleventhirty,

so I picked up the papers and folders still sitting

around, dropped them in the now-empty top drawer of the

file cabinet and closed it. I'd get back to it soon. Maybe next

year.

I decided to take the bus rather than bother trying to find

a parking place, and it let me off in front of the City Building,

directly adjacent to the City Annex, which housed both the

police department and the civil and criminal courts. Crossing

the street to Etheridge's, I was, as always, early but went in

to be sure Glen's table was available. I was delighted to see

Alex, a very nice, very attentive and very attractive waiter

whom I'd seen on duty nearly every time I'd been there for

the past few years.

Though I'd not been in in a couple months, Alex saw me,

smiled and gestured for me to follow him to what I thought of

as "Glen's table" in the back of the restaurant. We exchanged

pleasantries, and he handed me a menu as I sat down.

Leaving another menu opposite me for Glen, he moved off

long enough to bring me a cup of coffee.

I was on my second cup when Glen slid into the seat

across from me.

"Sorry I'm late," he said as we shook hands across the

table.

"No problem." I was used to it.

Alex appeared with coffee for Glen and a refill for me then

disappeared to give us—well, Glen, since I'd already looked at

it—time to study the menu, as good waiters do.

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"I'm sorry we haven't had a chance to talk since Crandall's

murder," Glen said, placing his napkin on his lap. "I've really

got to start cutting back on my case load before I have a

coronary."

"I figured you'd been busy."

"I've been hearing things," he said, glancing at the menu,

"but I didn't have time to concentrate too much on them. I

knew you were doing your job, and you'd let me know what

was going on when you were ready."

I smiled. "Thanks for the vote of confidence. And I did

want to talk to you about where the case is going. Were you

aware of the degree of Booth's gambling problem?"

Alex appeared to take our order, and after he'd gone, Glen

picked up where we'd left off.

"I knew he was a high roller," he said. "Always has been.

But I never had any idea it might have gotten out of hand."

"It seems it might have done exactly that," I said. "It's

possible that not only was he killed for his inability to pay his

debts—I hear his businesses were in serious trouble because

of it—but that Grant Jefferson may have been killed as a

warning to Booth, who either didn't get the message or

couldn't do anything about it.

"But my problem is that I was hired by the board to

investigate Grant's death on the assumption that it might

somehow be linked to the chorus or someone associated with

it, maybe even Booth. Everything I've been able to find out

indicates that, while several people might have done it, there

is no firm evidence they actually did. This whole Booth's

gambling thing came out of left field and sent the whole case

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off in a totally new direction, one the police are far better

equipped to deal with than I. If the chorus isn't involved, my

entire reason for being hired is negated."

Alex brought our food, and we ate in silence for a bit until

Glen looked at me and said, "So...?"

I shrugged. "So, I'm not quite sure what to do next. On

the one hand, I don't want to waste any more of the board's

money if it turns out that Booth's gambling was behind both

deaths, but on the other hand, if it turns out that it wasn't,

we could be right back to the chorus connection and I really

hate to close the door and leave a case dangling."

Glen dabbed at the corner of his mouth with his napkin.

"Closed doors can be reopened easily enough," he said.

"You've done what you could so far. Let's see what happens

with the police investigation. In the meantime, though, why

don't you send us a report of where things stand and a bill for

your time up to now. You can't go forever without a

paycheck."

He was certainly right about that, and I appreciated his

bringing it up before I had to.

* * * *

I spent the rest of Friday putting together my report,

which I was a little surprised to see looked like it might be

only a few pages short of War and Peace.

Saturday morning, Jonathan left for his gardening project

right after breakfast, leaving Joshua and I in charge of

chores. Luckily, Joshua seemed to equate helping out with

being a grownup and was enthusiastic about stripping his bed

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and stuffing dirty clothes into the clothes bag. His bed-making

skills left something to be desired, though he certainly got an

A for effort.

I helped him put the fitted bottom sheet on, and he

insisted on doing the rest of it himself while I did Jonathan's

and my bed. I returned to find he'd done a very nice job,

though the bedspread was about a foot and a half longer on

one side than the other and a large lump under the

bedspread proved to be one of his shoes, which had

apparently come off in the process. Neither of us had noticed

he only had one shoe, since he frequently went around the

house like my son John in the nursery rhyme—one shoe off

and one shoe on.

We were heading out for the grocery store when Eric

called, apparently to chat. I told him Jonathan was at his

landscaping job at the Conrads, which I was sure he knew.

"Oh, yeah," he said, "I forgot. Well, I wanted to see how

you were doing, too."

"I'm great," I said. "Joshua and I are getting ready to go

to the store."

"I've got to have a talk with that boy," Eric said. "He puts

way too much on you."

I assumed by "that boy" he meant Jonathan and not

Joshua.

"Not at all," I said. "I put a lot on him, too."

"A lot in him too, I'll bet."

"My reputation precedes me, I see," I joked, but I was

once again more than a little uncomfortable.

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We talked for a few more minutes about everything and

nothing. I have never been able to spend much time chatting

on the phone under any circumstances, so as soon as I had

the chance, I said, "Well, I hate to cut this short, but we'd

really better get going. I'll tell Jonathan you called. Do you

want him to call you back?"

"Nah, that's okay," he said. "I'll be gone most of the day.

I'll talk to him later."

I didn't have time or desire to ponder the call or why it had

been made, but I strongly suspected Eric knew full well

Jonathan wasn't home when he made it.

Our other chores went so smoothly we were able to spend

an extra half-hour at our local park, where Joshua managed

to get probably irreversible grass stains on a relatively new

pair of pants. I knew I was going to catch hell from Jonathan

for not keeping a closer eye on him, but grass stains are part

of being a kid.

I managed to dodge the bullet, though, when Jonathan

came home so tired from his day at the Conrads he didn't

even notice. He never complained of being tired, but it was

clear the poor guy was really beat. Instead of either fixing

dinner or going out, we ordered in a pizza, and he fell asleep

on the couch long before Joshua's bedtime.

* * * *

The next thing I knew, it was Monday and I was back at

my desk at the office working on my report to the chorus

board. At about ten o'clock, the phone rang.

"Hardesty Investigations."

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Pause. Click.

Damn!

I went back to the report until, less than ten minutes later,

the phone rang again. This time, someone was there.

"Not much went on over the weekend," Marty said after a

brief exchange of greetings, "but Earl and Dan worked most

of it and have checked with every loan shark and bookie in

town, from Charlie Tours on down, and it seems that Booth

owed everybody. Tours claimed everything was fine between

him and Booth, and that they'd played poker together the

week before Booth died. Talk about swimming with the

sharks! But several of the bookies said they'd been refusing

to take bets from Booth for the past couple of months. They

all have alibis for the time of his death, but what selfrespecting

bookie doesn't make sure he always has one?

"The major problem with the possible link between Booth's

death and Jefferson's is that, other than coincidence, we

really don't have a hook to hang our hat on. While I can see

Jefferson might have been killed as a warning to Booth—and

putting the bomb in one of Booth's expensive cars was a nice

touch—if the purpose of killing Booth was as a caution to

others to pay their debts, I can't help but think that it would

have been done a little more spectacularly, like with another

bomb. The majority of professional hits are done with a gun,

execution style. Not too many use bombs and fewer still bash

the target's head in. I don't know—I may be way off base

here, but something's not right. Dan agrees with me."

I did, too, as a matter of fact.

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"So, what are the chances of combining both investigations

under one team?" I asked.

"Well, neither Dan and I nor Earl and Ben really want

another case added to our docket, but I agree it would make

sense. We'll talk about it, and if we get any sort of clue that

there's more than coincidence involved, we'll go to Captain

Offermann." He paused before adding, "I don't suppose

there's anything new on your end."

I sighed. "Unfortunately, no. I've been sort of hanging fire

waiting to see if the gambling angle paid off."

"So have we," he admitted. "The leads on Jefferson have

gone nowhere fast. Nothing from the chorus members,

nothing solid from Stapleton. Well, we're still working on it, so

something still might show up. And we'll work as closely as

we can with Earl and Ben."

"Strange that the bomb fragments didn't take you

anywhere," I said.

"Actually, they took us to every hardware store and home

improvement center in the area, which got us exactly zip. We

made a list of all the components and took them around on

the outside chance somebody might remember someone

buying combinations of the materials. No luck. Whoever built

the bomb may not have been a pro, but he was pretty

damned smart and probably spent a good deal of time going

from store to store to collect everything, being careful not to

buy too many components from any one place."

"Hey, if you wanted an easy job, you sure made a bad

career move when you became a cop," I pointed out.

He laughed. "You've been talking to my wife, obviously."

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We hung up after the usual agreement to keep each other

posted.

* * * *

I went back to work on my report for Glen and the board.

Going over what I had written, I was far less than happy—this

case had more loose ends than a bedspread has fringe. Need

I add that I hate loose ends?

I was about ready to put it in the drawer for a couple of

hours and go have lunch when there was a knock at the door

and Eric walked in, carrying a large paper bag from the diner.

"Hi," he said. "I hope you don't mind my dropping in

without calling, but I had to make another run to our store

down the street and since it was so close to lunch time,

thought I'd stop by. I figured you might be busy, and I don't

mean to interrupt, but since you have to eat ... well, I took

the liberty of getting us a couple BLTs and thought we could

eat them up here."

Okay, now what do I do? I wondered. I didn't buy the "just

stopped by" story for a second, and saw it as yet another

strand in whatever web it was he was weaving for me. God

knows I'd tried to snip them off several times already.

"That was nice of you," I said. And it was. But ... "Did you

try to call earlier?" I was thinking of the hang-up.

"Yeah," he said, putting the bag on my desk, "but the line

was busy so I figured you were in."

"I am kind of busy today," I said, hoping he'd catch the

hint.

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He didn't. "Yeah, I figured that, but you've got to keep

your strength up." He opened the bag to extract two

Styrofoam boxes, a soft drink and a carton of milk, which he

reached across the desk to set in front of me. "I got some

fries in case you were hungry."

He stood there until I said, "Grab the chair," which he did

immediately, sitting down while moving it as close to the desk

as possible.

I opened the box with the sandwich and fries and when I

looked up at him, he was smiling at me.

"Glad we could get together," he said. "I hate eating lunch

alone. I don't know why I should—I do almost everything

alone."

I got it, but let it pass.

Maybe I was being too hard on the kid. I could appreciate

his being lonely but hadn't realized it was apparently a real

problem for him.

"What about your other friends?" I asked, giving in to my

curiosity. "Nobody you hang around with at work?"

He shrugged. 'Sometimes, but it's all real casual. I only

see them at work."

"Well, I'm sure Jonathan would love to have lunch with you

whenever he could."

Subtle, Hardesty, a mind-voice said.

"Yeah, that would be nice, and we did have lunch last time

I was out in his area around noon, but I don't get out to the

Placid store much. But with running back and forth to the one

near here so often..."

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That made sense, I guess. Maybe I was jumping to

conclusions. Jonathan was his friend, I was his friend's

partner, therefore...

I relaxed a bit and concentrated on my sandwich.

"You got any brothers or sisters?" Eric asked after taking a

long swig from his can of soda.

I set down the sandwich to open the carton of milk.

"Nope," I said. "I'm an only child. I always did sort of want

to have a brother, someone a few years younger I could boss

around."

I was surprised by the look that flashed briefly across his

face. I couldn't describe it, but it was not a happy one.

"Oh, sorry," I said. "I seem to remember your saying you

didn't get along very well with your brother. He was older

than you, wasn't he?"

He took another swig of his soda before replying. "Yeah,

older and smarter and more talented and ... I don't know why

my folks even bothered having me. The sun rose and set on

Walter, and he never let me forget it."

Sensing I was once again getting into an area best

avoided, I switched the subject.

"So, is there anything new with the chorus?" I asked.

He looked at me with a semi-smile, the meaning of which I

couldn't figure out. "Jonathan doesn't tell you things?"

"Well, yeah, but he isn't nearly as aware as you are of

everything that goes on. Nothing more about Grant, I

assume?"

He gave me a raised-eyebrow look of surprise. "Grant

who? No, I think he is slowly going away, and good riddance.

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Crandall Booth is still on the front burner, but ever since the

rumors started flying about his ties with the mob, that takes a

lot of the pressure off the idea that someone in the chorus

could have done him in."

Ties with the mob? Where in hell do these things come

from? Not every heavy gambler or bookie or loan shark has

links to La Cosa Nostra!

He took a bite of his sandwich and without looking up said,

"It doesn't make Crandall less of a prick, though, for what he

did to the chorus."

"I'm happy that things are getting back to where they

should be, for your sake and for Jonathan's. I know how

much you have invested in the chorus. Jonathan really

admires you for it."

He smiled. "Yeah, well, I'd trade with him in a second."

"What do you mean?" I asked, immediately wishing I

hadn't, since my gut knew exactly what he meant.

"I've got the chorus. Jonathan's got you."

Oooooo-kay, one of my mind voices said. What he means

is that Jonathan has somebody in his life and he doesn't.

It was drowned out by a chorus of other voices, led by my

ego, saying, Bullshit! He didn't say "somebody," he said

"you!"

God, I really was uncomfortable with the idea that Eric was

coming on to me. Monogamy wasn't easy for me. If Jonathan

wasn't in my life I probably would have jumped at the chance

to spend a little horizontal time with Eric, but Jonathan was in

my life and Eric knew it, and part of me was mildly irritated at

him for testing me like this.

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I don't remember much of what else we talked about as

we finished lunch, but when Eric got up to leave, I stood up

and reached for my wallet.

"What do I owe for lunch?" I asked, but he waved me

down.

"I'll take it out in trade," he said with a grin.

In your dreams, kid, I thought, but I managed to smile

and say, "No, I'm serious. You got lunch the last time."

"So, you can get it next time," he said.

Next time. I heaved a mental sigh.

It looked for a moment as though he was going to walk

around the desk and hug me but apparently thought better of

it.

"You got a wastebasket?" he asked, indicating the nowempty

Styrofoam boxes, napkins, empty soda can and milk

carton.

"I can get it, thanks," I said, and he shrugged.

"Okay," he said. "See you later, then." At the door, he

paused with his hand on the knob and turned his head back

toward me. "Oh, and tell Jonathan I said 'hi.'"

I recognize an afterthought when I hear one. I stood

staring at the door as it closed behind him.

[Back to Table of Contents]

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CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Eric's visit had put me in a bad mood. My partner's friend

was hitting on me. and if that fact ever got through to

Jonathan, it might well jeopardize their friendship. I was

firmly stuck between a rock and a hard place. I was the only

one who knew what was going on—well, other than Eric. I

simply had not wanted to believe he would knowingly risk

hurting Jonathan, and I'd given him the benefit of the doubt

ever since I first suspected a come-on.

But the doubt had been all but exhausted. True, he had

never made an overt physical pass, or come right out and

asked me to go to bed with him, but I didn't just fall off the

turnip truck.

I couldn't bring myself to talk seriously to Jonathan about

it—bless his trusting heart, he simply didn't pick up on it.

Well, the next time Eric showed up unannounced, I'd tell him

I was on my way out the door. I liked him and didn't want to

hurt his feelings, but there comes a point...

I forced myself to get back to putting the finishing touches

on my report to the chorus board, and reading it over only

deepened my sense of frustration. I'd spent a hell of a lot of

time and effort—and the board's money—based on the

assumption that Grant Jefferson had been murdered by

someone from the chorus. Then Crandall Booth's murder,

followed by the revelation of his gambling debts and financial

crises, and the logical probability that Grant's murder had

been a warning to Booth, ruled out any chorus connection and

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left me in mid-air. I couldn't help but feel that everything I'd

done from the moment I took the case had been one gigantic

wild goose chase. I hate wild goose chases. I hate being hired

to solve a case and not being able to solve it.

So, that was it. I was done. Turn in my report, get my

check—not without more than a little sense of guilt—and go

home. It reminded me for the several-hundredth time that

being a private investigator isn't as glamorous as it's cracked

up to be. We all like to take pride in our work and to end each

day with the knowledge that we've accomplished something.

Usually I can do that. Not this time.

Grant and Booth's murderer—and I really had little doubt

they were the same person—would, with luck, still be caught

eventually. Just not by me.

I was typing the final draft of my report when the phone

rang.

"Dick. Marty. We finally may have a lead on the Jefferson

bomb. Not sure what good it will do us, but our labs found

that three of the components were sufficiently different from

the generic that we were able to trace them to one

manufacturer who, we learned, makes them specifically for

Home 'n' Yard stores. That narrows it down from over a

hundred hardware stores in the area to the seven Home 'n'

Yards. Still a real outside chance, but it's better than

nothing."

"Well, I wish you luck," I said. I didn't mention that I was

closing up shop on my end of the case.

We talked for a few more minutes then hung up.

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I wondered why Home 'n' Yard rung a bell until I

remembered that was where Eric worked. Small world.

Do you suppose...? a mind voice asked.

No, I do not, I mentally replied. I'm not about to pin a

murder rap on someone just because he's hitting on me.

* * * *

I was on my way home, thinking about nothing in

particular. I was stopped at a red light when a mind voice

repeated a question that kept coming up, unbidden. Come on,

admit it, Eric could have done it.

Eric again! What in the hell was wrong with me? Enough

about Eric! Drop it!

He could have done it, the voice persisted.

A horn-blast from the car behind me alerted me that the

light was green, and I drove on.

Could Eric have done it—killed both Grant and Booth? Of

course he could! So could just about everybody else I'd even

remotely considered and anybody who shopped at Home 'n'

Yard. I'm supposed to be a detective, fer chrissakes! But I

simply couldn't see him as a killer. It was almost like

considering Jonathan as a suspect. Eric was Jonathan's friend.

Ergo...

Great logic, Sherlock!

I was more than a little irritated with myself over this

whole Eric thing. Was this considering him as a suspect

merely a way to divert myself from the possibility that I might

be interested in him sexually? I'd already admitted I could

have been under different circumstances or in a different, noThe

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Jonathan time. But now? It was totally out of the question.

And even if I might be attracted to Eric, in some remote

corner of my mind, I sure as hell wasn't about to do anything

about it. No, I was just having a typical case of "what if?"

fantasy.

* * * *

Since typically the early part of every evening revolved

around Joshua, Jonathan and I seldom talked about our day

until after he was safely tucked away for the night.

"Eric stopped by for lunch today," I said during a

commercial break on one of our favorite shows.

Jonathan gave me a rather strange look. "Really? You

seem to be seeing him more often than I do. I hope he didn't

interrupt anything."

"I was doing a report for Glen and the chorus board. I

wasn't expecting him, but when he came in with lunch he'd

picked up at the diner downstairs I could hardly say no."

Jonathan pursed his lips but said nothing. The program

resumed, and it wasn't until the next commercial break that

he said, "Do you still want me to talk to Eric?"

"About what? Stopping by, you mean? Apparently, he

makes a lot of trips to the Home 'n' Yard down the street for

his work. It would be nice if he could let me know he's

coming, though." I caught the look on his face. "What? You

look pensive."

He sighed. "I don't know, it's just that..." There was a long

pause.

"What?" I encouraged.

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He gave a small sigh. "Just that he's always mentioning

you and asking me stuff about you. I'm sure he's only

teasing, but..."

"Stuff like what?" The program had resumed, but I didn't

want to wait until the next commercial.

"I don't know. A lot of sex stuff. You know."

I didn't know, but I could guess. "And you tell him?" I

asked.

He blushed. "Some of it," he said. "Not all." Another pause

before: "It's kind of embarrassing. Maybe I should talk to

him. I don't want to hurt his feelings, but now that I think it

over, I do think maybe he's pushing it a little. I'm sure he

doesn't mean anything by it, but..."

Ah, dear Jonathan!

I let it drop, and we went back to our program,

* * * *

My Tuesday morning crossword puzzle would have to

include a six-letter word for "unlawful killing" and my mind

immediately came up with two words: murder and Eric.

Damn it!

I realized that, somewhere deep in the corners of my

mind, I'd been niggling with the possibility of Eric's being a

suspect long before my drive home the night before. I owed it

to myself to at least consider it openly.

Why had I refused to seriously consider him until now?

Lord knows he had as much or more motive than anyone else

in the chorus. He blamed both Grant and Booth for trying to

destroy something that was a very big part of his life. Why

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hadn't I followed up on that? A private investigator can't pick

and choose who he wants to consider a suspect. All true. But

Eric? Murder? I couldn't buy it.

Then, before I could start down the path leading to Eric's

being the killer, I remembered that he had a perfect alibi for

the time of Grant's death—Jonathan. Eric's car had broken

down, and Jonathan had picked him up to take him to chorus

practice. And if he couldn't have killed Grant, chances were

infinitesimal that he'd killed Booth.

I heaved a mental sigh of relief and got back to my

crossword.

* * * *

Having finished my report, I made a copy for each board

member, attached my bill to the original and put everything

in a large mailing envelope addressed generically to the Board

of Directors, Gay Men's Chorus. I then called Evergreen to see

if Jonathan might be free for lunch—he was—and left the

office.

That free-fall period between the end of one case and the

start of the next is always strange. On the one hand, there's

the feeling of liberation, and on the other there's the mild

panic of wondering how long it will be before the next case

comes along.

It was Bob Allen who had suggested I become a private

investigator, and at one of our recent get-togethers at his and

Mario's place he had suggested that when I got tired of being

a PI I should consider becoming a mystery writer, using some

of my cases as the foundation. I'd never thought of it, but I

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was pretty sure it was a lot easier to say "Hey, I think I'll

write a book" than to actually sit down and write one.

Still, it was a thought, and one that briefly flashed through

my mind as I faced the uncertainty of unemployment once

again.

I picked Jonathan up at noon, intending to drop my report

off at Glen's office on the way back to my own. We went to a

little place not far from Evergreen that served a great

oliveburger. They layered a hamburger patty with a mound of

chopped green olives, then put a large slice of cheese over

the olives and popped it under the broiler to melt enough to

keep the olives from falling off. Downright brilliant, I thought.

"I think maybe I'll have a talk with Eric tonight," Jonathan

said, sipping his chocolate malt.

I was a little surprised to think he was still thinking about

our conversation of the night before.

"And what are you going to tell him?"

"I don't know—that I know he likes to tease you, but that

you might think he's serious and try to put the make on him."

I stared at him. "Oh, now there's a plan!"

He grinned. "I thought so," he said. "But seriously, I'll just

tell him that you take things too literally sometimes, and that

you might get worried for no reason and might think you're

causing a problem with our friendship—mine and Eric's, not

yours and mine."

"Well..."

"So, I'll ask him out for coffee after the rehearsal and get

it out of the way. I'm sure it never occurred to him that you

might take him seriously."

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"You really don't have to do all this," I said. "It's not that

big a deal. I can handle it."

"I know, but you're busy and can't have people dropping in

without calling first. I know I'd appreciate someone telling me

if I was getting a little out of line on something. So, I might

be a little late getting home."

I nodded, and we finished our lunch.

After taking him back to work, I delivered my report to

Glen's office and left it with the receptionist, then puttered

around a bit before going back to the office, trying to put off

the inevitable realization that I was without a case to work

on. Not a good feeling.

Luckily, there was a call waiting from a prospective client

who identified himself only as Mel, which I answered

immediately. If I'd hoped for something exciting, this

definitely wasn't it. The guy wanted me to find out if his lover

was cheating on him. I normally considered taking cheatinglovers

cases pretty close to the bottom of the barrel, but they

normally could be resolved relatively quickly, so I agreed to

meet with the guy to discuss it, setting up an appointment for

the next day.

* * * *

It was a little after ten that night when Jonathan walked in

the door.

"How did it go?" I asked as he came over to sit beside me

on the couch.

"I'm not sure. I don't know if he's mad at me, or if I hurt

his feelings, or what.

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"I told him that maybe it might be a good idea if he called

before he dropped in at your office, and he said, 'What's the

matter? Are you jealous?' and I don't know if he was joking or

not. I told him I wasn't jealous, and that it's just that you get

pretty busy at times, or aren't always in your office, so he

might be able to save himself a trip if he called first. He said

he would, and when I apologized for bringing it up, he said

that was okay. But afterwards he seemed ... different. I really

hope I didn't make him feel bad."

"I'm sure he'll be okay," I said. "Don't worry about it."

* * * *

I won't bore you with the details of the meeting with Mel

Clark, my prospective client, a nice-enough late-forties type

who'd recently inherited a sizable sum of money and shortly

thereafter found a lover, Doug. Let it suffice to say Mel was

concerned that Doug, a bartender who worked nights, was

cheating on him during the day while he was at work. When

asked if he had any solid basis for his concern, he admitted

that he hadn't, but that Doug was extremely "hot"—he

produced a photo that amply verified that fact—and therefore

could not possibly be interested in Mel for anything other than

his money.

I really feel bad for people who think like that, but there

are an awful lot of them; and sadly, they are too frequently

right.

I agreed to do basic surveillance for a week, figuring that

would be more than ample time to find something if Doug

were cheating. I drew up the contract while he was there, got

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all the basic information—Doug's car, his work hours,

routines, habits, known friends, etc—and promised I would

start the next day.

* * * *

Surveillance work is, for the most part, on a par with

watching grass grow. A lot of sitting and standing and coffee

drinking. I made sure my camera had film and was always

right where I could grab it if needed.

It wasn't needed. Clark's house was in a nice residential

area, with apartment buildings on one side of the street and

neat single-family homes, of which Clark's was one, on the

other. Mel left for work every morning at eight, walking

toward the bus stop, and I was there to watch him leave.

From that point on, a lot of nothing. No visitors. The same

routine every day with no exceptions.

At ten-forty-five every morning, Doug, who was every bit

as hot in person as he was in his photo, came out of the

house, went to his car parked in the driveway and drove to

Gillie's Gym, where he worked out for an hour. Luckily, Gillie's

was one of those new-style gyms with huge windows facing

the street, so I was able to keep a fairly close eye on him

without having to actually go inside. I probably should have—

Jonathan had been ribbing me about my putting on weight.

When Doug left the gym, he went right home, maybe

stopping to do a few errands.

I'd stay on stake-out until four. Mel had told me he got

home at four-thirty, and I didn't think Doug would have the

opportunity to get into much mischief in thirty minutes.

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Leaving at four gave me time to make a quick run to my

office to check for mail and messages

At the end of the five working days, I called Mel at his

office to assure him it appeared his fears were groundless,

and that he should consider the possibility that Doug was

staying with him simply because he really wanted to.

I like happy endings.

* * * *

Of course, other things went on during the week, but I

didn't want to confuse you with jumping back and forth.

Marty called on Thursday to report there was basically

nothing to report—the information that the components of the

bomb that killed Grant Jefferson had all come from Home 'n'

Yard outlets led nowhere. The sheer number of outlets and

volume of sales almost guaranteed the components'

purchaser anonymity.

He and Dan were, however, increasingly convinced that

Grant's death was related to Booth's and therefore were

tacitly ceding the primacy of the investigation to Earl and

Ben, who were still following leads to Booth's gambling

connections.

His call sparked a twinge of guilt that I hadn't mentioned

that Eric worked at Home 'n' Yard's warehouse. I couldn't see

any point in muddying the waters by dragging him into it.

Home 'n' Yard had hundreds of employees in the city; Eric

was only one of them. Besides, I told myself, the police had

questioned him along with everyone else in the chorus right

after Grant was killed.

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Yes, a mind voice said, but that was before they knew

probably all the components had come from Home 'n' Yard.

Well, another countered, they aren't stupid. They surely

have it in their notes where Eric works. If they want to make

something more of it, they will. Don't go trying to do their

jobs for them.

And speaking of Eric, Jonathan had not talked to him since

after rehearsal the preceding Tuesday. Nor had I. Jonathan

tried to call him several times during the week and over the

weekend but always got a busy signal.

Finally, on Saturday evening, after he returned from his

final day at the Conrads', he called the operator to see if

there was a problem with Eric's phone line. She checked and

told him the phone was probably off the hook.

"For four days?" Jonathan asked me after he hung up.

"Maybe I should go over there and see if he's all right."

"I'm sure he's fine. But you might call Roger Rothenberger

to see if he's heard from him."

"I hate to bother Mister Rothenberger," he said, still

standing by the phone. There was a long pause, then: "But

maybe I should, just in case."

He pulled out his billfold and rummaged through it as

Joshua called to me from his bedroom to come retrieve a

book that had dropped behind his dresser.

As I returned to the living room, I heard Jonathan saying,

"No, that was it. I wanted to make sure he was all right.

Thanks. See you Tuesday.

"I should never have said anything to Eric!" he said as he

returned to the couch and sat down. "Mister Rothenberger

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said Eric had called just a while ago. That means he's mad at

me and maybe he doesn't want to be my friend anymore."

The way he said it reminded me of how much of the little

boy was still inside him.

I sat down beside him and put one arm around his

shoulders, pulling him to me. "It doesn't mean anything of

the sort. I'm sure he's got a good reason, and I wouldn't

worry about it. Maybe he's been busy."

He pursed his lips, then said, "Mister Rothenberger did say

Eric said he'd been putting in a lot of overtime."

"See?" I said. "Nothing to worry about."

He did not look convinced.

* * * *

On Monday, when I returned to the office in the afternoon

after my stake-out for Mel Clark, I found a rather strange

message from Eric on my answering machine.

"Dick, I've been calling you all week and all I get is your

machine. I didn't want to bother you by leaving a message,

before, but I do want to talk to you."

I tried returning the call immediately, though I suspected

he might still be at work. I got a busy signal. I tried once

more before leaving the office for home. Still busy.

I did not mention the call to Jonathan.

* * * *

When Jonathan returned from chorus practice Tuesday

night, I could tell immediately that something was not right,

and assumed things had not gone well with Eric. He got home

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right at Story Time, so we held off any conversation until

after Joshua was all tucked in for the night.

"Did you talk with Eric?" I asked when we returned to the

living room.

"Sort of."

"Sort of? What do you mean."

"I mean we spoke to each other, and he tried to pretend

nothing was wrong, but he was definitely keeping his

distance. I told him I'd been trying to call him, and he said

he'd been keeping his phone off the hook because he was

getting crank calls. And afterwards I asked him if he wanted

to go for coffee, and he said he couldn't."

Oh, Lord! Here I was, trying to shed the frustrations of a

fallen-flat murder investigation, and in the middle of the

added frustration over Eric's apparent whatever-it-was with

me and how it was affecting his friendship with Jonathan. I

knew I didn't have any reason to, but I felt guilty.

"I asked if he was mad at me," Jonathan added, "and he

said he wasn't, but..."

Damn it! When he said that it not only amped up the guilt

but made me feel really bad for Jonathan ... and a little

pissed at Eric for putting us all in this awkward position and

behaving like a thirteen-year-old.

* * * *

By the end of my stake-out on Wednesday, I couldn't wait

for Thursday afternoon, since that would be the end of this

particular—and excruciatingly dull—assignment. Returning to

the office Wednesday afternoon, I hoped to find something on

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my machine from Eric. With all the time on my hands

watching nothing happen with Doug or at the Clark house, I'd

spent a lot more time than I wanted to rehashing the

Grant/Booth case, which increasingly got blended in and

muddled up with the current situation with Eric. And the more

I thought of that particular aspect, the more irritated I

became with Eric.

I wasn't sure whether it was a result of my umpteenth

mulling over every aspect of the case, or as a way to vent my

frustration with the current situation, but I found myself

wondering if I'd been realistic in not seriously considering Eric

as a suspect.

Yeah, a mind-voice said, let it be Eric and then they can

send him off to jail and get you out of having to find a

rational way out of an awkward situation.

The instant I thought it, I was ashamed of myself. I tried

to step back and look at things logically. Eric had a lot of

reason to hate Grant, who he thought was a real threat to the

chorus. He was hardly the only one, my mind voice in charge

of logic pointed out. Grant had a knack for pissing people off.

Grant had been killed by a car bomb. Eric didn't get along

with his parents and resented his brother, and they had died

in an explosion. What teenager doesn't hate his family at one

time or another? the voice asked. And it was a natural gas

explosion, not a bomb. How many teenagers would be able to

rig a natural gas explosion even if they wanted to?

The bomb's components had been traced to the company

Eric worked for.

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Home 'n' Yard is the biggest hardware retailer in the area,

the voice countered. Plus, the bomber undoubtedly knew that

buying traceable components from a small mom-and-pop

store would increase the chance that somebody might

remember who bought them.

Mind voice 3, Hardesty 0.

* * * *

Okay, so Thursday afternoon finally came, I went back to

the office, called Mel Clark and that was that! Friday morning,

I typed up my bill for Clark, put in a curiosity call to Marty,

who wasn't in, and was once more contemplating my

unemployment and the fact that, since I was self-employed, I

couldn't file for unemployment compensation.

At quarter to eleven, the phone rang. Guess who?

"Hey, you're in!" the familiar voice said.

"Hi, Eric," I said. "I just got off a case. This is my first day

in the office. I got your message and tried to call but your line

was busy."

"Yeah, like I told Jonathan I've been getting some crank

calls—I think it's a teenager from the neighborhood—so I've

been leaving it off the hook."

"Jonathan was worried," I said.

"Yeah, that's what he said. Look, I know I've been making

a pest of myself, but I really think we should have a talk to

sort of get some things cleared up."

Part of me was relieved to hear him say that. Another part

worried about exactly where he was going with this.

"Sure," I said. "When and where?"

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"Lunch at your diner? Around one, if that's not too late."

"One's fine," I said. "I'll meet you there."

In a way, I was glad we'd be meeting on neutral territory.

It was a rule I'd had since my dating days—never agree to

meet a blind date at either his place or yours. A neutral place

gives each of you wiggle room if you see things aren't going

the way you'd hoped. Though the situation was totally

different here, the principle applied—it's easier to be objective

when other people are in the vicinity.

* * * *

I got to the diner at about ten till one and was lucky to

grab the only booth available. It still had the dishes on it from

the couple who'd gotten up as I walked in, but I took it

anyway.

The waitress came over to clear off the table and hand me

a menu. I told her there'd be two of us and ordered coffee.

Eric didn't arrive until about ten after, full of apologies.

"I'm really sorry, Dick," he said, "but I had to get a signature

from one of the managers and he was on the phone forever."

"No problem," I said.

There was the usual pause for coffee and another menu

and place service set-up and "I'll give you a minute to

decide." When that was over, I couldn't resist saying, "So..."

He looked at me and sighed.

"I've been thinking about this a lot," he began, "and I

figure the only thing to do is to be totally honest with you."

Uh-oh!

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"Look," he continued, "I like Jonathan. I really do. He's a

great guy. But I ... like you, too, in a different way. I haven't

been very good at hiding it, I'm afraid."

No, he hadn't. But I didn't say anything. I was relieved

he'd confirmed what I'd thought, but had no idea what he

thought could be done about it.

"I know you really love Jonathan, but to be honest with

you, ever since I met you I've thought Jonathan wasn't right

for you."

"In what way?" I asked, having decided to sit back until

everything was out on the table.

The waitress came back, and we glanced at the menu and

ordered.

"I don't know," he continued when she'd gone. "Like I said,

he's a great guy and I really do like him..."

Yes, you've made that point, I thought.

"...but your personalities are so different. You're really

solid, and Jonathan is still really a kid."

He reached quickly across the booth to touch my hand

then withdrew. "And please, please, don't tell Jonathan any of

this. I really don't want to hurt him, or to lose him as a

friend."

"I won't," I said and meant it.

"I guess what I really want to know is, do you think there

might ever be a chance for you and me to...?" He let the

sentence trail off.

I smiled at him and hoped it was sincere. "Look, Eric, I

appreciate how hard it must be for you to tell me this, and

the same way you really like Jonathan, I really like you. But

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the fact is that Jonathan and Joshua are the biggest things in

my life right now, and I could never think of jeopardizing

what I have with them for anything."

He'd been looking at the table, but he brought his eyes up

to mine at the words right now, and I wished I'd never said

them.

"I understand," he said. "I really do. And I guess I'd have

been surprised if you'd said anything else. You're one of the

strongest people I've ever..." He let the sentence trail off.

"Eric, I'm sincerely flattered, and I admire your courage in

being honest with me," I said, and truly meant it. "But I'm

strictly an old fashioned one-guy guy. And that guy is

Jonathan."

He nodded but said nothing as the waitress arrived with

our food.

After eating in silence for a minute or two, he looked at me

with a small smile. "This may sound corny," he said, "but can

we still be friends?"

I laughed. "Sure we can!" I said. "And I hope that nothing

will change your being friends with Jonathan. He really looks

up to you, and he'd feel terrible if anything happened to your

friendship."

"It won't, I promise," he said. "But if anything ever did

happen between you and Jonathan, I hope you'll keep me in

mind."

"You'll be the first one I call," I said with a grin.

We ate in silence for another minute until Eric said, "And I

hope this goes without saying, but all this is strictly between

you and me, right? You won't say anything to Jonathan?"

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"Not a word."

He sighed. "Good. I just had to get it off my chest."

"I'm glad you did. And you're sure you're going to be okay

with all this?"

"Sure," he said with another smile. "I needed to know

where I stood. Now, I know."

[Back to Table of Contents]

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CHAPTER FIFTEEN

To say I was relieved was an understatement. I'm not sure

what I expected, other than that Eric would confirm my

suspicions. I was very glad that it went as smoothly as it did.

Marty returned my call late Friday, and I told him I was

officially off the Grant Jefferson case.

"But," I added, "if it turns out Grant's murder isn't tied in

with Booth's, I'm up the proverbial creek. I've never had to

reopen a case before, and I don't look forward to the prospect

of doing so now."

He laughed. "I don't think you have to worry about that.

Ben and Earl are still looking into Charlie Tours's business

associates. Charlie is well known for his intimidation tactics

with those who owe him money, and he seems to have some

connection—how close is the question—to at least two

hitmen, one of whom was released from prison about a week

before Jefferson was killed. We're tracking down his current

whereabouts.

"So, there are still a lot of loose ends out there. We all

wish things could go faster than they do. But if you don't

have patience, you won't last long in this business."

"Understood," I said, reflecting on the virtue of patience

and my own sore lack of same.

We ended our conversation with my usual request to keep

me as posted as he could and his usual agreement to do so.

* * * *

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Yet another blink-and-it's-gone weekend, and I found

myself sitting at my desk on Monday morning trying to find a

fifteen-letter word—it ran clear across the width of the

puzzle—for "magician." I'd put in the final "t" in

"prestidigitator" when Donna called from Glen's office asking

whether I would like to stop by and pick up my check for the

Jefferson case, or if she should mail it to me. I didn't want to

appear too eager, so I told her I could come by later in the

morning.

I was, as always, grateful to Glen for his thoughtfulness

and diplomacy in realizing I could use the money, and I'm

sure he fast-tracked the payment process for me.

Eric called Jonathan Monday night, which rather surprised

both of us but delighted Jonathan, who really had been

concerned about losing his friendship. Needless to say, I had

not mentioned my conversation with him, and apparently, he

said nothing about it to Jonathan, who was all smiles when he

got off the phone.

"Everything okay?" I asked from the floor, where I had

been roughhousing with Joshua.

"Fine. He apologized and said he'd had a few problems

lately and had to get them out of the way. I told him he could

always talk to me about them, but he likes to keep things

inside."

Thank God! I thought.

* * * *

Jonathan returned from chorus practice Tuesday night,

beaming.

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"I've got a solo!" he announced. "Mister Rothenberger just

added it to the program. He said he thought it was perfect for

me. Wasn't that great of him?"

"That's fantastic, babe," I said. I got up to hug him,

followed by Joshua, who'd been buttoning up his pajama top

in preparation for bedtime but wasn't about to pass up the

chance for a hug.

"So, what song is it?" I asked, indicating the large kraft

envelope he was carrying.

"Well, you know the next concert is on movie music, and

Mister Rothenberger decided we needed one more song, and

he chose 'A Dream is a Wish Your Heart Makes' from

Cinderella. The solo part is for a tenor, and he gave it to me!"

Way to go, Rothenberger! I thought. It was a perfect song

for Jonathan, and I was happy and excited for him.

"Mister Rothernberger gave me the only copy he has right

now so I could study it over," he said, "but he needs it back

and I hate to ask you, but do you think you could photocopy

it tomorrow and take the original back to him? He's ordered

copies for the whole chorus, but I don't want to keep his

original for a whole week."

"Sure," I agreed.

We took Joshua into his bedroom for his evening ritual. I'd

noticed that while Bunny, his large stuffed rabbit, was still

always on his bed, he wasn't as vital a part of Joshua's life as

he had been.

"Did you talk with Eric?" I asked when we returned to the

living room.

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"A little bit—there really isn't too much time to talk.

Everything's fine, he's his old self again. But I'm afraid he

might be a little jealous that Mister Rothenberger gave me a

solo. I mean, Eric deserves one a lot more than I do."

"Well, he wouldn't have given it to you if he didn't think

you were the right one for it," I said. "When he has the right

one for Eric, he'll give it to him."

Jonathan shrugged. "I guess you're right. I hope so."

* * * *

There wasn't any particular reason to go to work on time

Wednesday morning, except that I was running a business

and didn't want to miss out on any calls. I fixed the coffee,

copied the music, found another envelope for Jonathan's copy

then sat down for my morning routine.

I called Rothenberger shortly after nine-thirty. I didn't

know what his daily routine might be but figured if he were

home he'd certainly be up by that time.

Sure enough, after the second ring: "Rothenberger here."

"Roger, hi, it's Dick Hardesty."

"Well, this is a pleasant surprise," he said, uh, pleasantly.

"What can I do for you?"

"Jonathan wanted me to return your sheet music. I've

made a photocopy for him."

He chuckled. "Well, that was very nice of him, but it wasn't

really necessary. I've ordered additional copies, and they

should be here within a few days. Still, I am going over the

program music and..."

"I'll be happy to bring it over, if you're going to be home."

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There was only a short pause before: "Well, if you're sure

you don't mind."

"Not at all. When would be convenient for you?"

"Any time at all," he said. "I'll be working here all day. I

usually have a cup of tea around eleven, and if that's not too

soon, perhaps you could join me."

"I'd like that," I said. "I can leave here shortly and should

be at your place within forty-five minutes."

"I'll see you when you get here, then."

* * * *

I arrived at Rothenberger's building at about ten-forty-five,

finding one side of his street marked No Parking 9 a.m.-3

p.m. for Street Cleaning and the other side bumper-tobumper.

I spent a good five minutes looking for a parking

place and finally found one a block and a half away on a side

street.

He greeted me at the door carrying a spiral notepad and a

sheath of music.

"Come in, come in," he said, shifting the notepad atop the

the music so we could shake hands. I noticed the coffee table,

piled high with manila folders and loose sheet music, had

been pulled up close to the chair he'd been sitting in during

my last visit. Several stacks of other folders and loose papers

were on the floor on either side of the chair.

Motioning me to a chair, he put his notebook and music on

top of one of the stacks on the coffee table then moved the

stack to the floor to make a clear space.

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"The tea is about ready," he said. "If you'll excuse me a

moment..."

He disappeared into the kitchen and returned a minute or

so later with a tray containing two cups, a ceramic teapot,

cream, sugar and a small plate of old-fashioned butter

cookies, which he set in the cleared area of the coffee table.

When we both had our tea and I had taken two butter

cookies, he sat down.

"There's a lot of work in putting a concert together," he

said, a sweeping motion of one hand indicating the materials

all around him. "I think this will be another good one."

"I have no doubt," I said. "I still can't get over how much I

enjoyed the last one. And I very much appreciate your giving

Jonathan a solo. He's ecstatic!"

He grinned. "One of the things I admire about Jonathan is

that you never have to wonder what he feels about things.

He's managed to retain the childlike sweetness and innocence

far too many people lose as they grow older. So, whenever I

find a song that so closely fits a specific personality, I try to

combine the two."

I nodded. "You certainly made a good fit with this one. I'd

been a bit concerned for him the last few weeks."

"About Eric, you mean?" he asked.

That surprised me a bit. "Yes. Had Jonathan said anything

to you?"

He shook his head. "No, but I knew. Eric tends to get a bit

moody from time to time, but he always comes out of it."

"Well, I can hardly blame him, I suppose," I said,

"considering everything he's gone through."

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He took a sip of his tea. "Yes, I suppose he's come to look

on me as a surrogate father. I have tried to do whatever I

could in that area."

"You knew him before his family died, you said?"

"Yes, his mother sang in the same church choir as I, and I

became friends with the family. Eric must have been around

ten at the time. I felt rather sorry for him."

"Ah?" I said, my curiosity piqued. "Why?"

"His parents were nice enough people, but they made it

obvious that Eric was their 'second son' in every regard, and

while they doted on Walter, it quite often was at Eric's

expense. I'm sure it wasn't intentional, but I could tell it hurt

Eric terribly, and Walter didn't help matters by continually

bullying him. If Eric would complain to his parents about

something Walter had done, they would side with Walter. Not

an easy childhood."

"I assume it was you who recommended he see Doctor

Meade after the accident?"

His arm, in the process of lifting his cup to his mouth,

stopped in mid-motion.

"Oh, no," he said. "It was Eric's parents who sent him to

see Doctor Meade about six months prior to their deaths. He

got no counseling after they died, though it was obvious he

needed it."

Interesting!

"Who cared for him after his parents' death?"

"He went to live with his maternal grandparents," he said.

"They treated him well, but didn't really have much

interaction with him, so he was pretty much on his own. I saw

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him frequently and did what I could, but he was rather at

loose ends until ... well, until the chorus formed. He really

poured himself into it, and as I've said so often, he's been

indispensable to it. So, I'm glad any issues he may have had

recently, whether they directly involved Jonathan or not, are

resolved."

* * * *

To my considerable dismay, I found my thoughts

continually returning to Eric. They'd come, I'd push them

aside, and they'd immediately pop back up. Why did Eric's

having seen Porter Meade before the death of his family

bother me so? I gradually realized it was the implication he'd

had serious emotional problems before his parents and

brother died. From what Roger Rothenberger had said of

Eric's dysfunctional family life, I could certainly understand

why his folks might have sent him for help, though they didn't

seem like the kind of people who would have done so without

strong reason.

And why did I have the urge to call Porter Meade? He

wouldn't tell me a thing, and what possible business of mine

was it, anyway? Eric had mental problems. Who didn't?

Niggle, niggle, niggle! I hate niggles!

* * * *

I called Porter Meade. Well, I put in a call to the Porter

Meade Clinic, left my name and number and said I'd

appreciate it if Doctor Meade could call me. And no, there was

nothing anyone else could do for me, and no, this was not a

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personal call, and no, I preferred to explain the reason for my

call directly to Doctor Meade, thank you.

I honestly didn't really expect him to return my call, he

was undoubtedly a very busy man, but I had to try.

To my surprise, the phone rang less than fifteen minutes

later.

"Hardesty Investigations," I said with as much enthusiasm

as if I hadn't said it 14,000 times before.

"This is Porter Meade returning your call," the very

professional but familiar voice said. "We met at the Glicks' not

too long ago."

"I'm flattered that you remember," I said, "and I

appreciate your calling."

"So, what can I do for you, Dick?"

"I'm working on a case..." So, I lied. I wasn't working on

anything since I'd turned in my bill to the chorus's board.

"...involving one of your former patients, Eric Speers. This

goes back quite a few years."

There was a slight pause, then: "Well, I'm sure you realize,

Dick, that I cannot discuss any patient, past or present, with

you."

"I understand," I said, though I would have vastly

preferred he had said, Sure, Dick, what would you like to

know? "But Eric told me he had seen you, though he didn't

mention if it was as an outpatient or whether he spent time in

the clinic."

"I wish I could help you, but I'm afraid I can't give you

that information."

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"It was worth a try," I said, then added, "You did know his

family was killed in an explosion shortly after he saw you?"

He'd be pretty isolated if he didn't.

There was a very long pause into which I read several

chapters.

"Yes, I was aware of that. Truly tragic. Unfortunately, I

never saw him after the ... accident. I would have liked to

volunteer my services, but I'm sure you understand..."

The ... accident? Talk about a significant pause!

"I do," I said. "As I said, I was sure you wouldn't be able

to provide any information, but I had to try. I very much

appreciate your talking with me."

"My pleasure," he said. "Perhaps we may meet at the

Glicks' again sometime."

"I'd like that," I said. "And please give my regards to

Hunter."

"I will," he replied, "and you to Jonathan. He's a charming

young man."

"Thank you."

We exchanged goodbyes and hung up.

I didn't like where my mind was taking me. Although I'd

already gone over all the circumstantial evidence that might

have made Eric a suspect I still couldn't accept it, and it was

negated by his having an alibi for the time of Grant's death.

And if he hadn't killed Grant he couldn't have killed Booth.

* * * *

As Jonathan was ready to head off for one of his last

evening classes before he got his degree, he said, "I was

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wondering if we could have Eric over for dinner this

weekend."

"Sure," I said. "Any special reason?"

"Do we need one?"

He had a point.

"Uh, no."

"Why don't you call and ask him while I'm at class?" he

said. "I don't want him to think he's only my friend."

Ah, Jonathan! I thought, but said nothing.

After Joshua and I had done the dishes, and while he was

occupied with one of his projects, I, a bit reluctantly, called

Eric to invite him over for dinner Sunday night. I chose

Sunday because Monday was a workday for all of us and,

thus, the visit would probably wrap up fairly early. While I

hate to admit it, I can be devious when the situation requires.

He readily accepted and said he'd be here at six-thirty. I

fervently hoped, as I hung up, that he had not read anything

into my being the one extending the invitation.

* * * *

A long, slow rest of the week. No word from Marty, and I

didn't feel justified in bothering him. When and if he had

anything to tell me, I knew he would.

As for work, there was none, so I spent Thursday and

Friday afternoon making the rounds of the bars—something

I'd really not done since I met Jonathan. It wasn't to cruise

but to touch base with the bar owners, from whom I still got

case leads and referrals. I could have done it by phone, but

figured the personal touch was important.

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I hit five bars Thursday and six Friday, having a drink—

mostly tonic with lime—in each one and making sure to tip

the bartender well, along with giving them my business card.

Luck was with me, and most of the owners were in, so I

considered it a pretty productive venture.

I was sharply reminded as I walked into some of my old

stomping grounds of how I'd changed from those trick-happy

days, and realized that, while I looked back on them with a

bit of nostalgia, I would never go back to them. It's always

something of a shock to realize the person you are is not the

same person you were.

Saturday was a cookie-cutter day with all the usual cookiecutter

chores. Since Jonathan needed gas, we took his car.

One of our stops was at a stationery and art supply house to

get some things for Joshua: tracing paper, more crayons—he

went through crayons so fast I suspected sometimes he must

be eating them—and a large pad of drawing paper. While

there, I also got a ream of paper for my copier, which I kept

separate lest Joshua consider it his. When we got in the car, I

stuck it under the passenger's seat and promptly forgot it.

* * * *

We'd decided on doing a pot roast for Sunday, since it

could be easily made in the crock pot we always intended to

use far more frequently than we actually did. Sunday

morning, a tide-me-over breakfast finished—we planned to go

to brunch later—and crock pot turned on, Jonathan and

Joshua left for church and I washed the dishes, then settled in

to read the paper until they returned.

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Eric arrived promptly at six-thirty with a six-pack of

imported beer for me and him and a bottle of sparkling apple

cider for Jonathan.

"And you, too, Joshua," he added, "since you're getting to

be such a big boy!"

Joshua's usual antipathy melted with the acknowledgment

of his almost-grown-up status, and any qualms I might have

had also vanished.

Eric was in top form, laughing and joking. He and Jonathan

talked about the upcoming concert, and Eric told him how

glad he was that Rothenberger had given him the solo.

"You'll be fantastic!" he told Jonathan, who was obviously

delighted by his friend's praise.

"Did you drive over or take the bus?" I asked, figuring that

if he'd taken the bus we could give him a ride home later.

"I drove," he said.

"Ah, the car's working okay now?"

"Yep. It's getting up there, but it's running fine for the

moment. I've been saving up for a new one, but I plan to

keep this one until it gives up the ghost altogether."

I started to ask him why he had ever gotten such a big car

in the first place, then thought that he might have inherited it

after his family died and was glad I didn't ask.

Dinner went very well, with a lot of laughing. Jonathan was

even more animated than usual, and I was truly happy he

had found a real friend in Eric. I felt guilty for ever having

even considered Eric might be a suspect in two murders.

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At about eight-forty-five, as I was getting ready to take

Joshua into the bathroom to get him ready for bed, Eric said

he had better be getting home.

"I don't like to be out too late on Sunday—Monday is

always a bear if I don't get ready for it with as much sleep as

I can get."

He gave each of us a hug as we walked with him to the

door.

"See ya," he said with a big smile and left.

We got Joshua safely bedded for the evening and returned

to the living room to watch a little TV before going to bed

ourselves.

"That was really nice," Jonathan said. "I was worried that

Eric might be unhappy because Mister Rothenberger gave me

the solo, but I'm so glad he wasn't."

I put my arm around his shoulder. "You worry too much."

After the ten o'clock news, we turned off the TV to get

ready for bed.

"I'll get the lights," I said.

When I got to the one nearest the window, I glanced down

into the street and saw a white 1968 Dodge driving past the

building.

Well, Eric isn't the only one in town with a white '68

Dodge, I thought.

I'd taken three steps toward the bedroom when the hair on

my neck and arms rose.

Or maybe he is!

My body walked into the bedroom and got undressed while

my mind was shooting off fireworks in all directions.

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"You okay?" Jonathan asked as I climbed into bed.

"Sure," I said, and quickly turned off the light.

He moved over to me as usual, putting his head on my

shoulder and draping an arm across my chest. I turned my

head to kiss him on the forehead.

And suddenly, from amidst all the fireworks, a question

emerged. From where I don't know, but it was a good one.

"Babe," I said, "remember the night Grant was killed and

you went over to give Eric a ride to rehearsal?"

"Yeah?"

I could feel his eyes on me. I didn't look at him.

"You picked him up at his house, right?"

"No, I picked him up near the garage where he'd taken his

car."

"Did you see his car?"

"Yeah. It was parked right in front of the garage, but the

garage was closed. He said he was going to take it in the next

morning."

"Do you remember where that was?"

"Some place on Coolege—Coolege and Adams. Why?"

Grant's car blew up in the fifteen—I was sure it was

fifteen—hundred block of East Monroe. Adams parallels East

Monroe two blocks north. Coolege is sixteen hundred north

and crosses both East Monroe and Adams, which means

Coolege was the next cross-street from the explosion. So,

Jonathan picked Eric up within five blocks of where Grant

died! Jeezus!

The fireworks in my mind had faded, and in their place was

a growing block of ice.

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"Did you give Eric a ride home after practice?" I asked.

"No. I offered to, but he said he didn't want to keep me

from getting home and that he could catch a bus. You didn't

answer me, what's this all about?"

"Nothing, babe. Nothing. Let's go to sleep."

Neither of us said anything more, and a few minutes later I

could tell from his breathing he was asleep. Normally,

listening to the rhythm of his breathing helps me get to sleep,

too. Not this time.

God, how can I be so dense? How could I possibly not

have figured this out before? I tried to relax and let my mind

go where it wanted. And, like a bloodhound following a trail, it

did.

There was a Home 'n' Yard not far from Central Imports;

Eric could easily have rigged most of the bomb during the

day. Why he hadn't completed it I had no idea. So, he had

followed Grant from work. He couldn't risk finishing up the

bomb in the supermarket parking lot, but when Grant came

out with his trick, Eric knew he'd have a shot while they were

busy.

So, he followed them to the trick's house. He waited until

they'd gone inside then finished the hookup. He had no way

of knowing how long it would be before Grant came out, but

Eric probably assumed he intended to make it to chorus

practice, which meant the time frame for which he might

need an alibi was tight.

Being with someone else at the time of a crime is the best

possible alibi and probably why he opted for the car-trouble

scenario. He must have known about that particular garage,

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which probably had hours posted, so he knew it would be

closed. He likely called Jonathan to come get him before he

drove there to allow himself sufficient time.

So, his alibi was pretty solid. He gambled there would be

too many potential suspects for anyone to concentrate too

heavily on him, or look too closely into the time frame. He

was with Jonathan. Period.

I don't know how closely the police had looked into his

alibi, but obviously, he'd gotten away with it.

Why had I been so stubborn on insisting that if he hadn't

killed Grant then he hadn't killed Booth? I suppose I thought I

was protecting Jonathan by not calling attention to Eric even

when it might have been warranted. I hadn't urged Marty to

look more closely into the details of Eric's past or his working

at Home 'n' Yard, where he had access to everything he

needed for the bomb. With so many possible suspects to look

into, the police's concentration was diluted. I knew they

hadn't given up, and that they might well get around to

looking more closely at Eric, but I owed it to Marty to tell him

everything I knew and suspected.

I was almost to the point of drifting off to sleep when one

more thought jarred me wide awake. Was that Eric's car I

saw out the window? More than an hour after he'd left to go

home? Where had he been, and what had he been doing?

And then I knew.

* * * *

I was getting out of the shower when Jonathan woke up.

He looked surprised to see me out of bed before he was.

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"What's going on?" he asked.

"Nothing," I said. "I woke up early and thought I'd beat

you to the shower." Actually, I hadn't slept at all, and I'm

sure it was only my high level of adrenaline that kept me

from feeling like a zombie.

I was putting on my pants when Jonathan got out of bed

and headed for the shower. I desperately needed an excuse

for my next move and found it when I remembered the ream

of paper I'd left in his car.

"Oh," I said. "I just remembered, I left that ream of paper

in your car. I'm going to run down and get it before I forget

it."

"Okay," he said. "The garage is open."

Since he usually had Joshua with him, heading for or

returning from daycare, he'd gotten out of the habit of locking

the garage despite my repeated urging that he do so.

Jonathan's garage was three spaces down from mine. With

not much room for anything but the car, we didn't store

anything really worth stealing there, which is another reason

he always gave for not locking the door.

I went immediately to the driver's side and looked in the

window. Nothing looked amiss. I moved around to the

passenger's side and did the same thing. Nothing. I knelt

down and looked under the car as carefully as I could. No

problems.

Feeling rather like an idiot, I opened the front passenger

door and bent to reach under the front seat for the ream of

paper.

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Then I saw it—a pair of thin wires running alongside the

passenger's side of the transmission "hump" and up the

firewall, across to the ignition. Jonathan would never have

noticed it.

What was I feeling? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. I was

watching someone else's movie, reading someone else's

book. Instinct took over.

I stepped back from the car, carefully closed the door and

went to the rear tire. Unscrewing the cap from the intake

valve, I used one of my keys to press down on it and heard

the hiss of escaping air. I kept pressing until the tire went flat

then replaced the cap and left the garage.

Jonathan was heading for Joshua's room to wake him up.

Setting the ream of paper on the coffee table, I said

casually, "You're going to have to take my car today. You've

got another flat tire."

"Drat! How did that happen?"

"Probably ran over a nail," I said. "I'm in no rush to get to

work, so I can change it before I go."

Joshua appeared behind him, rubbing his eyes.

"'Morning, Joshua," I said. I was truly amazed at how calm

I was.

He didn't acknowledge the greeting but merely padded

toward the bathroom, followed by Jonathan. He stopped at

the door and turned to him.

"I can do it!" he said, and Jonathan made a dramatic stopin-

mid-motion.

"Yes, sir!" he said, giving a smart military salute. "But

leave the door open. I don't want you to miss anything."

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* * * *

Breakfast over, the two J's prepared to leave.

"I'll walk down with you," I said. "I need to check to see if

there's anything in the car I might need." I knew there

wasn't, but I didn't want them anywhere near Jonathan's car.

"Let me see how bad it is," Jonathan said as we neared the

garages. I lifted the door to his garage, but only high enough

he could see that the tire was flat.

"Don't worry about it," I said, quickly re-closing the door.

"I'll change it in no time and take the flat in for repair. It'll be

good as new tonight."

Moving to my own garage, I lifted the door and entered to

make a quick check, ostensibly looking for anything I might

need. I paid special attention to the steering column and the

ignition. Nothing out of the ordinary. I'd known there wouldn't

be.

"Okay," I said, opening the driver's side rear door for

Joshua to get in, "I'll see you tonight."

We exchanged hugs, and they left. I closed the door

behind them, went to Jonathan's garage and locked the door

then went quickly back to the apartment. I was pretty sure

Marty wouldn't be in yet, but dialed his number anyway.

A voice I didn't recognize said "Detective Gresham's desk."

I told him it was imperative I speak to Detective Gresham

immediately. I was told he was probably on his way in as we

spoke, and I asked that he call me the minute he got in the

door, stressing the urgency of the request.

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"Is it something someone else can help you with?" the

voice asked.

"No," I said. "It's in regard to one of his current cases."

Giving him my home number and being assured that Marty

would get the message as soon as he came in, I hung up.

* * * *

As I waited for Marty's call, my calm was replaced by a

welling anger that soon grew to fury. Eric Speer, Jonathan's

"best friend," the guy who'd been coming on to me and the

guy I'd been defending and ruling out as a suspect because

he was Jonathan's friend, had just tried to kill not only

Jonathan but Joshua. I couldn't end that sentence with an

exclamation point. There wouldn't be enough exclamation

points or boldfaces or underlinings or italics or second-coming

type large enough to express what I was experiencing.

We always cleaned out the coffeepot before leaving for

work, so I busied myself making a fresh pot and trying very

hard to get my emotions under control. Had Eric been

standing in front of me right then, I honestly don't know what

I'd have done. Sometimes I frightened myself, and this was

one of those times.

After what seemed like an hour but was probably only ten

minutes, the phone rang, and I raced to pick it up.

"Dick, it's Marty. What's going on?"

"I need the bomb squad, for starters," I said.

"Jeezus! If you're near a bomb, get the hell away right

now. If you're not, stay where you are. We'll be right over."

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"No sirens, please," I said. "I don't want to panic the

neighbors. I'll meet you in the alley behind my apartment." I

gave him the address, which I was sure he already had.

We hung up, and I went back into the kitchen for another

cup of coffee.

* * * *

Okay, no point in dragging it out, or outlining all the

details. The police arrived with the bomb squad, the bomb

was disconnected from the starter and taken into the armored

bomb disposal truck for dismantling. A city tow truck

appeared to haul the car to the city's impound lot where it

could be dusted for fingerprints and gone over carefully for

detailed evidence needed to convict Eric on a charge of

attempted murder.

But it wasn't simply attempted murder. Eric had killed

Grant Jefferson and Crandall Booth just, I was certain, as he

had killed his family many years earlier. I'm sure you had

already figured that out, not being anywhere near as dense

as I sometimes can be.

After the bomb squad and other units had gone, Marty,

Dan Carpenter and I went up to the apartment for my

statement. I told them everything. I could tell they were not

happy with my having not told them some of my suspicions

before, but since they had only been suspicions, they didn't

say anything and let me talk.

When the door closed behind Marty and Dan, I went back

to the kitchen, poured the last of the coffee into my cup and

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took it into the living room, where I stood in front of the

window, looking down at the street.

The hardest part was yet to come, telling Jonathan that his

friend had tried to kill him.

Over the years I have developed the ability to get one step

ahead of my reaction to emotional situations I fear I can't

handle. I'm somehow able to move out of myself, take a step

back and observe the situation with the objectivity of

someone watching a movie of someone else's life. I honed it

with the death of each of my parents. I did it now.

That Jonathan and Joshua might well have died had I not

seen Eric's car drive by the front of our building was

something I simply refused even to allow myself to

contemplate. I was well aware that, somewhere in the

deepest dungeons of my mind, uncontrollable fury was

shaking the bars of its cage, shrieking to be let loose; and I

knew I could not let it. Instead, I found myself objectively

thinking that I knew enough of jealousy and loneliness and

frustration to understand the core of Eric's motivations for

killing. There is no way, I convinced myself, that Eric could be

sane. I even felt sorry for whatever had happened to him as a

child to lead him on the path he'd pursued.

So, when Jonathan and Joshua got home, I greeted them

with an extra-large group hug but said nothing.

"You're home early," Jonathan observed. "Did you get the

tire fixed?"

"No problem," I said.

* * * *

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320

Luckily, since our local early-evening news follows the

national news, we usually turn off the TV to start fixing dinner

as soon as the national news ends. I made sure we did so

that night. I had also, before Jonathan got home, taken the

precaution of disconnecting the telephone, and was relieved

he didn't try to call anyone.

We sailed through dinner and play/study time and Joshuaready-

for-bed time and story time, and Jonathan and I

returned to the living room to sit on the couch.

"So, how was your day?" he asked.

Taking a deep breath, I told him.

* * * *

I think we're all so used to detective novels and action

films building to a rousing thunderclap ending that we tend to

feel a bit let down by the realization that real life doesn't work

that way. I suppose if I had confronted Eric as he was in the

process of planting the bomb, there might possibly have been

some sort of dramatic, adrenaline-charged physical

confrontation. Perhaps, as I had him pinned to the garage

floor, even a dramatic, tragic-but-passionate kiss before I

called the police. I'm just as glad there wasn't.

In real life, the story doesn't end when the credits roll;

there are always a few loose ends to tie up before closing the

book on a case. For example, within forty-eight hours after

Eric's arrest, Marty called to tell me that a search of a

Dumpster behind his apartment had yielded wadded pieces of

duct tape, wire scraps and other things left over from making

the bomb planted in Jonathan's car and matching those used

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321

in the bomb that killed Grant Jefferson. They also found a tire

iron in the back of his car that, despite apparent efforts to

wipe it clean, contained traces of blood and matched the fatal

wound on the back of Crandall Booth's head.

The chorus survived, as I was sure it would, and life went

on. Eric was tried on two counts of murder and one of

attempted murder and convicted.

* * * *

One night shortly after the verdict was announced, as

Jonathan and I lay in bed, he turned to me and said, "I'm

thinking of writing to Eric in prison."

That brought me awake in a hurry. "Why in the world

would you want to do that?"

"Because he has no one. He's never really had anyone. He

killed Grant and Mister Booth to protect the chorus, which

was the only family he really had, and he tried to kill me so

that he could have you. Can you imagine how terrible it must

be not to have anyone at all? That's so incredibly sad." He

was quiet a moment, then said, "And besides, he may not

have been my friend, but I was his."

"I know, babe," I said. I pulled him to me and held him

until we went to sleep.

END

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About the Author

If it is possible to have a split personality without being

schizophrenic, Dorien Grey qualifies. Shortly after his

appearance in Roger Margason's life, a division of

responsibilities was established. Dorien has control over

everything relating to writing books and blogs, drawing on

Roger's diverse life experiences. Roger is responsible for all

the details of day-to-day living: eating, sleeping, paying

bills—all things corporeal. And, as in Oscar Wilde's novel,

Dorien remains young and beautiful while Roger is subject to

the cruelties and vagaries of time. A lifelong book and

magazine editor, Roger/Dorien now lives in Chicago and

devotes full time to writing.

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323

ABOUT THE ARTIST

Martine Jardin has been an artist since she was very small.

Her mother guarantees she was born holding a pencil, which

for a while, as a toddler, she nicknamed "Zessie."

She won several art competitions with her drawings as a

child, ventured into charcoal, watercolors and oils later in life

and about twelve years ago started creating digital art.

Since then, she's created hundreds of book covers for

Zumaya Publications and eXtasy Books, among others. She

welcomes visitors to her website: www.martinejardin.com.

If you are connected to the Internet, take a

moment to rate this eBook by going back to

your bookshelf at www.fictionwise.com.