The Angel Singers (21 page)

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-and-run, 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 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 hands. 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.

“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 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 Rothenberger 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.

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 good-byes 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.”

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 good-bye 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 come-on 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, 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…

*

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’ 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.

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 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 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.

“Mr. 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.