The Dirt Peddler (24 page)

Adjacent to the crematorium was a much smaller building of the same materials, but in a less ornate style, which served as the cemetery's and the crematorium's office. We pulled up into the small parking area beside it and I turned off the engine.

“Do you want me to go in with you?” I asked, and Jonathan gave me a small smile and a shake of his head. “No. I think Randy'd like for me to do it. You don't mind, do you?”

He had made no move to open the door, and I reached over and laid my hand on his leg.

“I don't mind. And I think you're right. Randy'd want you to do it.”

He took a deep breath, grabbed my hand and squeezed it quickly, then opened the door. “Be right back.”

About ten minutes later, he emerged from the office carrying a small, plain wood box, only a little larger than a cigar box. He carried it in both hands, as though afraid he might drop it. He came over to the car, set the box carefully on the hood, opened the door, picked up the box, and got in, carefully putting the box on his lap before reaching over to close the door.

“We can go home first before we go over to Tim and Phil's, can't we?”

“Sure.”

I backed out of the parking place and headed down the winding drive to the main gate.

“Good. I thought we'd put him in the guest bedroom, since he's stayed there before.”

All the way home, he kept his eyes fixed on the box in his lap. Finally he said softly, more to himself than to me, “I can't believe this is Randy.”

“It's not, babe,” I said gently.

“Where do you suppose Randy is?” He had turned his head to look at me as if expecting me to have an answer.

“I think Randy is exactly where he was before he was conceived.”

“No heaven?”

I shook my head.

“No heaven. No hell. Just nothing at all—infinity.”

He kept looking at me, studying my face.

“I think I believe in heaven,” he said.

I reached over to take his hand. “Then do.”

“And Randy's there.”

“Then Randy's there,” I replied.

We rode the rest of the way in silence.

*

Dinner at Tim and Phil's was exactly what Jonathan—and I—needed. We all studiously avoided talking about anything heavy or philosophical. Jonathan and Phil spent a great deal of time talking about fish. Jonathan related the trauma of realizing that bigger fish eat smaller fish, but he diplomatically did not mention that it was Phil's namesake who was a main perpetrator.

Phil and Tim had just gotten a couple of new fish for their large aquarium…gloriously iridescent creatures I don't recall ever having seen before. Jonathan, of course, was enthralled, his enthusiasm for immediately running out and buying a couple for his own tank dampened only by being reluctantly told—at Jonathan's insistent prodding—how much they had cost.

We talked and laughed until nearly midnight, at which point we said our good-nights and headed for home. While Jonathan's spirits had lifted considerably it did not escape me that, as we walked down the hall to our bedroom, Jonathan stopped at the guest bedroom to quietly close the door and say softly, “'Night, Randy.”

*

A dream. Dusk. Some little country town. I'm in a car, in the back seat. There are two men in the front seat. Jeffrey Dinsmore is driving. There's a very attractive, obviously gay young blond in the passenger's seat. I can't make out many of the words, but they're both obviously upset. The kid saying he doesn't want to go. Dinsmore saying he has to. Then Dinsmore alone in the car, parked by some sort of building. There's a bus in front with the door open. The young man appears from somewhere—the building?—and gets onto the bus. Suddenly, he gets back off and comes quickly over to the car. The young man is upset. Dinsmore opens the door…

I know,
I thought as I stood in front of the mirror and lathered shaving cream over my face,
…a dream's just a dream.
I have them all the time; I just don't remember most of them. And as far as the power of dreams to provide revelations of mysteries, I put them pretty much up there with examining the entrails of an owl or reading tea leaves. But this one stuck with me, though I didn't know why.

I'd not really had much time since Dinsmore left the office to think about him and try to figure out if I thought he was being sincere or trying to con me. I didn't believe for one second that Randy had been the first guy Jeffrey Dinsmore had had sex with. And it struck me as a little more than coincidence that out of all the residents at New Eden, the office help all seemed to be male hustlers—until now, I realized, as I remembered that it had been a woman who had answered the phone when I'd called. I might be making a stretch here, but it occurred to me that Mrs. Dinsmore might have instigated the gender change in office staff after finding her husband
in flagrante delicto—
I love that phrase—with Randy.

“Are you going to actually shave or just stand there all day?” I raised my eyes into the mirror and saw Jonathan standing behind me, toweling his hair dry.

“Sorry. Just thinking.”

He slung the towel over his shoulder and ran his hand over my butt and moved it across my hip and around toward my front.

“So was I,” he said with a devilish grin.

What the hell…it was Saturday!

*

But not for long. Before I knew it I was pouring water into the office coffee maker on Monday morning ready to start a new week without knowing where the last one had gone.

I had been able, however, largely to keep my mind off the Tunderew case. I realized, as I sat at my desk going through the newspaper that it was beginning to tiptoe back into my consciousness.

What
did
I make of Jeffrey Dinsmore? The fact that I was thinking of him was my way of telling myself that he'd moved to the top of the list, and that the others…Larry Fletcher, the Bernadines, and even Catherine Tunderew…had pretty much dropped off the radar screen. Everything was pretty much pointing at the good Reverend. He'd said it himself: Tunderew's book would destroy just about everything he'd worked for.

But that was if he'd known Tunderew was writing a book about him and New Eden. That's
if
. Tunderew was pretty devious. Unless Randy had told him, how really would Dinsmore have known? He seemed genuinely shocked when I told him I thought he was the subject of the next book.

Yeah, like you've never been conned before
, my mind-voice observed.

Well, yeah, I'd been conned. More times than I'd like to admit, but I'm a trusting guy.

Uh huh,
my mind-voice said.

But why would Dinsmore bump off guys he'd been having sex with?

Maybe because he'd been having sex with guys? And maybe because he didn't want to risk them telling his wife?

Which brings up the subject of the Reverend
Mrs.
Dinsmore. Could she
not
have known her husband had an eye for the boys? Well, it's possible she didn't—people tend not to see things they don't want to see. And Mrs. Dinsmore certainly did not strike me as being stupid. She did travel a lot. I didn't know who made the work assignments at the various New Edens, but it would be relatively easy for Jeffrey to select who worked in the residence office. If Mrs. Dinsmore
didn't
have a clue, she might even have preferred a guy working in the home with her husband when she was away, rather than risk his being tempted by some “other woman.”

Hmm.

*

I like it when things start coming together. I realized that by quietly moving the other potential suspects out of the way, it was pretty much a process of elimination, and only Jeffrey Dinsmore—and perhaps Barbara Dinsmore; I hadn't had a chance to look at that possibility yet, but I would—remained. But regardless of which Dinsmore it might be, I was increasingly positive that he or she (maybe
they
? Unlikely, but…) was responsible for Tony Tunderew's murder, and Randy's death.

I was feeling pretty damned smug.

And then the phone rang.

Chapter 11

“Hardesty Investigations.”

“Dick,” the familiar voice said. “It's Glen. Are you still working on the Tunderew case?”

“Yeah.” I was a little curious as to why he'd be asking.

“How's it going?”

“Pretty well, I think. I feel I'm getting close.”

“Well, I've been wondering about how you were doing, and I just came across a piece of information you might find interesting, if you're not already aware of it. Would you like to meet for lunch? We can talk about it.”

“Sure. Etheridge's?”

“Twelve fifteen. Same time, same station.”

“I'll see you there.”

Why wasn't I feeling quite so smug?

*

I was early, as usual. Alex, the really hot waiter, was as usual on duty and, even though I hadn't been there in quite a while, showed me to O'Banyon's table without being asked. He poured my coffee, laid out two menus, and went about his business.

At twelve twenty—early for him—O'Banyon entered and, exchanging a nod with Alex, came directly to the table. We shook hands as he sat down, and Alex appeared from nowhere to pour his coffee and refill my half-empty cup.

“Need a minute? Today's special is Eggplant Parmesan, so you'll know.”

O'Banyon and I looked at one another, then said in unison, “Sounds good.”

Alex nodded, jotted the order down on his pad, then headed for the kitchen.

O'Banyon took a sip of his coffee before saying, “So, tell all.”

And I did. He seemed duly impressed, and obviously surprised by the New Eden

related deaths.

Alex returned with our lunch just as I finished, and we ate in silence for a few moments.

“Very interesting,” O'Banyon said finally.

I finished swallowing a mouthful of eggplant.

“Indeed. So why do I get the feeling you've got a monkey wrench to drop into my well-oiled machine?”

He took another sip of coffee and grinned. “Well, maybe it is, maybe it isn't. But were you aware that Bernadine Press had a $1.5 million life insurance policy on our friend Mr. Tunderew?”

Wrench dropped.

“No, I wasn't.” I wasn't immediately quite sure how to take that bit of information. “I had no idea a publisher could take out a policy on one of its authors.”

O'Banyon nodded. “It's not common, but not unheard of under the ‘protection of investment' classification. Think about the Hollywood studios insuring Ann Miller's legs. Usually it's a publicity gimmick. But Bernadine didn't make a peep on this one. I really can't think of another publisher who's done it, but from what you've told me and what I gathered from my brief association with the late departed, it was a damned shrewd move on Bernadine Press's part. It's a pretty expensive gamble, especially for a company in as precarious a financial position as Bernadine is…or was. Unless, of course, they somehow found a way to hedge their bet.”

“Obviously, it paid off for Bernadine. They get the second book
and
cash in on the insurance! If I were the suspicious type, I might say it wasn't a bad motive for murder. I'd venture to guess that had Tunderew lived long enough to actually sign with another publisher, the policy would be void.”

O'Banyon nodded again. “Since their interest/investment would be thereby voided, yes. So Tunderew's dying when he did was really a stroke of good luck for them.”

While I mulled that over, we relaxed and small-talked until Alex returned to refill our coffee, take our plates, and ask if we wanted dessert. We passed.

As we parted company outside the restaurant and I watched O'Banyon cross the street to the City Building, I made a mental note to have another little talk with Peter Bernadine.

*

I called Bernadine Press as soon as I returned to the office, said who I was, and asked to speak to Peter Bernadine.

“Mr. Bernadine is out of the office,” the receptionist said, “but Mr. Bernadine senior is in. Would you like to speak with him?”

Actually, I'd have preferred to speak to Peter, but… “Yes, please.”

There was a moment of silence, then the sound of a receiver being lifted.

“This is Donald Bernadine.”

“Mr. Bernadine, this is Dick Hardesty. Sorry to bother you, but I have a question you might be able to answer for me.”

His voice reflected his caution. “Regarding?”

I wasn't quite sure how to mention it so, as usual in such cases, just plunged in. “I understand Bernadine Press took out a rather sizable insurance policy on Mr. Tunderew shortly before his death.”

There was a long pause.

“And just how might this be any of your business, Mr. Hardesty?”

He had a good point.

“As you know, I'm looking into Mr. Tunderew's death, and I'm trying to get as much information as possible before I go to the police with my suspicion that his death was not accidental. If the police open an investigation, they'll undoubtedly find out about the policy, and I'd like to be able to present them with a logical reason for your having taken it out. Perhaps it might keep them from having to approach you directly.”

Another very long silence, to the point where I was about to say, “Hello?”

“The policy,” he said just before I opened my mouth, “was taken out as a form of collateral against an expansion loan. Peter thought it would be a good idea.”

“The bank suggested it?”

“No, again it was Peter's idea. He thought it would strengthen our presentation to the bank.”

“I see.” It did make sense, I suppose. “Well, thank you for the explanation. I'll definitely add it to my notes.”

“If there's nothing else, then, perhaps you will excuse me. I have a busy day.”