The Dirt Peddler (16 page)

Aha,
I thought.

“Do you have any idea how close he was to finishing? Do you have any part of the manuscript?”

“I know he was close to the end, but he never gave me any part of the manuscript.”

“But you do know who it was about, then?”

There was a pause, then a cautious, “It wasn't
about
anyone,” he said defensively. “The book was a work of fiction.”

“Like
Dirty Little Minds
?”

“Exactly. Some people may have seen some vague similarity to certain well-known individuals, but that would only be a testament to Mr. Tunderew's ability to create lifelike characters.”

Uh huh.

“And you can't tell me which actual person the ‘lifelike character' this book might resemble?”

“No. I don't engage in speculation. As I say, it's a work of fiction.”

“Well, thank you very much for your time, Mr. Armata. I'm sorry that you lost a client—especially one with such great potential for you.”

“Win some, lose some. Now if you'll excuse me…”

“Certainly. Thanks again.”

I heard the click of his hanging up.

*

I assumed Armata must have been in the business quite a while to be able to take the loss of his potential share of the profits from an all-but-guaranteed blockbuster in stride. From what I'd gathered from the Bernadines, I assumed Tunderew had only taken Armata on as an agent for the second book, and he got nothing from
Dirty Little Minds
. But I also suspected he probably knew more about the second book and how close to completion it was than he let on. Still, he seemed a little more casual about the whole thing than I'd have thought.

I'd just called downstairs to the diner in the lobby for a turkey club, a small salad (hey, I was trying to eat healthier), and a chocolate shake (okay, so I wasn't totally succeeding), and had just headed for the door to go down to get it when the phone rang.

I leaned across the desk to pick it up.

“Hardesty Investigations.”

“Mr. Hardesty, it's Catherine Tunderew. You wanted to talk to me?”

I walked back around my desk to sit down.

“Yes, as a matter of fact I did. First, I'd like to express my condolences on Mr. Tunderew's death.”

I could almost hear a small smile in her voice when she said, “That's very kind of you, Mr. Hardesty, but as I think you know, condolences are hardly necessary.”

“I understand. But several questions have come up and…”

She interrupted. “Are you still working on this blackmail thing? I'd have thought that issue would have become moot with Tony's death.”

“Well, that part of it, yes. But the passenger in the car with Mr. Tunderew was an acquaintance of mine, and…”

She interrupted again.

“Oh, my, this is all beginning to sound very complicated. Why don't we talk in person over a cup of tea? Would you like to come by around two o'clock?”

“Uh, yes, that would be nice. If you're sure I won't be intruding.”

She gave a small laugh.

“On what? Certainly not my grief, and I've just finished work on my last commissioned book, so I have all the time in the world. Do come over and we'll talk.”

“That's fine. I'll see you at two.”

As I hung up I wondered why Franz Lehar suddenly popped into my mind, and then the thought was immediately followed by the title music from his operetta,
The Merry Widow
.

Where
do
you come up with these things, Hardesty?
my mind asked.

*

I went downstairs to pick up lunch, then returned to my office and ate it while pretty much staring off into space, thinking. I had no doubt that Tunderew had been killed, and I rather suspected that the people I knew about with good reason to want him dead were almost assuredly not the only ones. He had profited, in
Dirty Little Minds
, from a lot of influential people's misery, and in large part contributed to and perpetuated it. The Governor Keene scandal, which might eventually have just faded away, was forever immortalized in print. The subject of the next book had every right—if they even knew they were the target—to be sufficiently unhappy to be willing to go to great lengths to prevent its publication.

I'd just about put Larry Fletcher out of my mind as far as any involvement with the blackmail was concerned, and I'd never so much as considered him as a factor in Tunderew's death. But the more I thought about it…could he really be as naive as he came across? Never turn your back on the quiet ones. What if he had somehow found out that it was Tunderew who'd gotten him fired, and realized that Tunderew had been using him as a doormat and made a ton of money off what Fletcher had done for him because he thought Tunderew liked him? I know I might have been more than a tad miffed if it had happened to me.

And then there was Bernadine Press…

I pulled myself out of my reverie and looked at my watch. Time to head out for tea with Catherine Tunderew.

*

The work area of her living room was, I noticed when I entered, a lot less cluttered than the last time I'd been there. Well, she said she'd just finished a commission. She greeted me wearing a tent-like Hawaiian muumuu with a pleasantly muted floral pattern. Her greying hair was in a rubber-banded ponytail. Again, she wore no makeup. She might not have been awaiting the photographers from
Vogue
, but she did look comfortable.

She showed me to a seat, then went into the kitchen for the tea.

When we were both settled in, she said, “Now tell me what you're about, Mr. Hardesty.”

I explained to her that her ex and I had had a parting of the ways over the blackmail issue when I told him I thought the person he was positive was responsible was, in my opinion, in fact not.

“Someone gay, of course,” Mrs. Tunderew said, taking a sip of her tea. “How very like Tony—he always was rabidly homophobic. Some people see Jews behind everything that's wrong with the world. Some see Republicans.” She gave a small smile. “For Tony, it was homosexuals. Which is why, when you originally mentioned he was being blackmailed for possibly being gay himself, it struck me as rather unlikely. And which, perversely enough, is probably why he hired you—to keep it all ‘in the family' as it were.”

Odd. I didn't think I'd ever mentioned to her that I was gay.

Like it matters?
my mind-voice asked.

She looked at me with slightly knit brows. “Though I am curious as to why you would ever have consented to work for him.”

I shrugged. “Because he pushed the right buttons by implying that if I didn't, I'd be as big a bigot as he was.”

She smiled again and took another sip of tea.

“Tony was a very good button-pusher. He'd have made a wonderful elevator operator.”

“Well, the fact that my acq…my friend…Randy was gay and was in the car with him lends a good deal of credence to the blackmail claim. I can't imagine any other reason the two of them would have been together, or how they would ever have met.”

I was lying, of course, but she didn't have to know that.

I reached for the small round tin of butter cookies she had brought in with the tea.

“It's quite possible,” she said as I took a bite of cookie and washed it down with a sip of tea, “that they met while Tony was doing that article.”

“Which article was that?”

“Tony had a good-old-boy buddy on the staff of the
Journal-Sentinal
, our answer to the
Washington Post
.” She smiled again.

The
Journal-Sentinal
was to journalism what pond scum is to Albert Einstein.

“Several months ago they asked Tony to write a bottom-of-the-shoe report on local prostitution. It was a two-part series, one dealing with female prostitutes, and into which I'm sure he poured his heart among other things. The other was on male prostitutes, which he approached with complete revulsion.

“But of course Tony would never let revulsion get in the way of making money. He interviewed several men for the article. Was your friend by chance a prostitute? No offense to either you or your friend, of course.”

“None taken. And yes, he was a hustler. But again I don't see the connection between his possibly having been interviewed for an article several months ago and his being in the car with your ex-husband when he was killed.”

I was hoping my apparent naivety might spark some sort of response or reaction. It didn't.

She nodded, slowly. “Just a thought.”

I decided it was time to change the subject.

“Did your ex-husband have a drug problem?”

She raised an eyebrow slightly and accompanied it with a small smile.

“You might say that, though I understand that it was only after his finding fame and fortune that he was able to afford to indulge it to the fullest.”

Okay. Next question.

“Are you the beneficiary of your husband's…your ex's'…will?”

She looked at me over the rim of her tea cup, from which she had just taken another sip.

“I was. I very much doubt that I am now. I suppose I should check with the lawyer who drew up both our wills.”

“I strongly recommend you do that.” I was thinking of the fact that Glen O'Banyon had been in the process of drawing up a new will for Tunderew—and it was unlikely that Tunderew would have written one excluding his wife and then another one after that. I had another question.

“And if I may I ask—who is paying Mr. Tunderew's funeral expenses?”

She shook her head and set her now empty cup on the tray with the plate of cookies.

“Bernadine Press.”

Bernadine Press?

“Bernadine Press?” I echoed.

She sat back in her chair.

“Yes, interestingly, I got a call from Peter Bernadine asking me the same thing as you did about whether I was beneficiary of the will. When I told them I wasn't sure, he asked if I were planning on a service for him as his ex-wife. I told them that as far as I was concerned, they could put him in a cardboard box and leave him out by the curb on garbage day. And I certainly would never have had enough money to afford a funeral through McGinnis and Morbey. More tea?”

“I'm fine, thanks.”

“They offered to pay for the entire thing, if I would agree that if I discovered I am in the will, they could deduct half of the funeral cost from future royalties from
Dirty Little Minds
. I told them that if they were willing to take that gamble, it would be fine with me, but if I wasn't in the will, it would be totally at their expense.

“I gather they're planning to make a big media event of it. I wouldn't be surprised if there were a Ferris wheel and a tilt-a-whirl. And pony rides for the kiddies.”

On thinking it over, I realized that a big, lavish funeral probably would be to Bernadine Press's ultimate advantage. The cost of the funeral could easily be offset by additional book sales. Still, something in that scenario didn't ring quite true. It was all just a little bit
too
generous an offer.

“Do you have any idea where the manuscript for the second book might be? Or how far along he might have gotten?” I asked, changing the subject yet again.

She shook her head.

“I haven't a clue. I would imagine it's up at the cabin somewhere, but I wouldn't know. He got the cabin in the divorce and insisted I give him my key. I'm sure he'd have had me prosecuted for trespassing if I'd tried to go up there after the divorce.”

I finished my tea and decided it was time to leave. I thanked her for her time and wished her the best.

*

Nope.
Something's
not right. I debated on whether or not to return to the office—it was close to time to go home, and I could drive out and pick up Jonathan. I decided to make a quick stop at the office for a phone call. For some reason, I wanted to talk to Peter Bernadine.

*

“Bernadine Press.”

“Is Peter Bernadine in?”

“May I tell him who's calling?”

“Dick Hardesty.”

“One moment, please.”

I was pretty sure Bernadine would remember my name, and I was right.

“Mr. Hardesty. What can I do for you?”

“I understand Bernadine Press is paying Mr. Tunderew's funeral expenses. That's extremely generous of you.”

“Well, he did bring quite a bit of money into the company. We figured we owed him.”

“I was just talking with Mrs. Tunderew, and she told me of your agreement.”

I could almost hear the smile in his voice. “To be brutally honest with you, Mr. Hardesty, we would never in a million years have even considered paying a cent toward his funeral had she not contacted us to suggest it and point out its benefits. It made good sense.”

“She contacted you?”

“Yes. She pointed out that by paying half of the expense ourselves and taking her half out of future royalties, we could recoup our half in increased sales. We were still hesitant, but when she agreed not to contest our rights to the new book as part of the deal, we leapt at it. If the manuscript is as far along as she indicates it is, a ghost writer should be able to finish it off in no time.”

!!! I
knew
it!!!

“So everybody comes out ahead.”

“Exactly. All we were interested in from the start was having the two-book contract honored. So we're happy.”

“Well, I wish you all the success in the world.”

“Thank you, Mr. Hardesty. It may be immodest of me to say so, but we've earned it.”

*

“If the manuscript is as far along as she indicates it is, a ghost writer should be able to finish it off in no time!”
How did she know how far along the manuscript was? She told me she knew nothing at all about it. Just what kind of games was Catherine Tunderew playing?