The Angel Singers (22 page)

“He was over at Mr. Rothenberger’s for dinner and Mr. Booth called while he was there. He said he was going to formally notify the chorus’ board but wanted Mr. Rothenberger to know first. Eric’s really, really unhappy.”

“I can imagine,” I said. “Did Booth give a reason?”

“If he did, Mr. 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 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 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.

“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 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 me and my friends who were there 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 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 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.”

“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.

Chapter 11

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 rolling-around-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?”

“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.”