The Angel Singers (15 page)

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.

“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. “

“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.

“…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.”

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.

“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!”

*

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 Mr. Booth, and that he’ll be 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
Mr. 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 more 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 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’ 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 wheel-spinning 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 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.

Chapter 8

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.