The Popsicle Tree (12 page)

“Carlene said she remembered Roy mentioning once that his mother has a sister here whom she visited regularly.”

So the mother had seen Carlene on the street, subsequently read about her death and the fact that Carlene was “a single mother,” put two and two together, and contacted her son. It was a bit of a stretch…but possible.

But why would either one of them care? And again, why Roy D'Angelo's rush to “get back” a son he'd never technically had?

I gave her Glen O'Banyon's name and office number and said I didn't know if he handled custody cases or not, but if he didn't he could probably refer her to someone who did. I also asked for her phone number, just in case I needed it.

She thanked me and we said our good-byes.

I immediately dialed Glen O'Banyon's number and asked the receptionist if he was in. He was in court, so I asked to speak to Donna, his private secretary, and gave her a brief background of the situation. She said she would pass the information on as soon as she could.

*

Again, I couldn't help but return to the fact that Carlene had been dead less than four days and suddenly Roy D'Angelo crawls out of the woodwork to seek custody of a son Carlene didn't think he knew he had. If Frank Santorini's death may have been coincidental to Carlene's, I'd bet my bottom dollar that this was no coincidence at all.

The phone rang again.

“Hardesty Investigations.”

“Hi, Dick, it's Jonathan…”

Well, of
course
it's Jonathan
, I thought.
Does he think I don't recognize his voice after all this time?

“Hi, Babe. What's up?”

“I hate to ask, but could I have your credit card number? I want to order flowers for Carlene's funeral. My boss knows a florist in Carrington and he says they do really nice work, so I'm going to call them, but I'll have to have a credit card to do it.”

“Sure.” I reached for my wallet, read him the number, and he repeated it after he'd written it down.

“I'm going to have them put all three of our names on the card because I know Joshua liked her too.”

“That's a very nice idea,” I said, and it was. I wondered if I would have thought of it.

“Thanks for the number. I'll call them right now. See you tonight.”

When I hung up from Jonathan, my mind went back yet again to the very suspicious timing of Roy D'Angelo's demand for custody of his son. I was very curious as to how he knew not only that Kelly was with Beth, but also where she lived. In any event, the timing could not have been worse, and it clearly underscored the fact that the guy was a world-class jerk.

I truly, deeply hate funerals, but I was suddenly tempted to take a ride up to Carrington. I could wait outside the mortuary to see who came in, then maybe drive out to the cemetery to see who showed up there. I wondered if Jan Houston would be there—not that I'd know her if I saw her—and I especially wondered whether Estelle Bronson would show up. I was pretty sure she would, probably on the pretext of representing Happy Day. The one person I was certain
wouldn't
be there was Roy D'Angelo.

Looking at my watch, I saw it was just past ten thirty. The funeral was at two. I
could
make it.

You'll have to go home and change first if you're going,
my mind-voice in charge of social etiquette—very seldom heard from, I might add—said.

But I'm not going to actually go to the funeral itself,
I countered.

Ah, I see,
it replied.
So you're going to drive two hours round-trip to see who shows up at the funeral of a woman you knew personally—albeit briefly—and liked and risk being seen by her sister, whom you've met, and Estelle Bronson, whom you also know, and you don't have the guts to go in to the funeral to pay your respects? You're a strange bird, Hardesty.

*

Okay, okay
. So I left the office at eleven thirty and went home and got into a suit and I went to the funeral.

At about eleven, Marty Gresham had returned my call, saying the Carrington police had been unable to talk to Jan Houston since her phone was still out of order, she was still on vacation from work, and no one was home when they stopped by her apartment. They'd looked in through the windows to verify that everything seemed in order, indicating she apparently hadn't moved out. Maybe I'd have a chance to talk to her if she was at the funeral.

I called Jonathan before I left the office and left a message telling him where I was going and that I might possibly be late getting home. I knew he'd have wanted to go too, but this was a spur-of-the-moment thing, and I hoped he'd understand.

*

As I said, I hate funerals. The intimations of mortality are far too blatant. I did not, however, approach the casket. I find viewing the dead—painted and primped manikins from which the human being they once were had long since departed—one of the more ghastly and repugnant of our social customs.

Just as I'd pulled into the parking lot beside the mortuary, I saw a car pull up at the entrance, and I watched as Beth emerged with her two daughters, but, I was greatly relieved to see, no Kelly. The car moved off around the building, and a few moments later a man I assumed to be Beth's husband came from the direction the car had gone, and entered the mortuary. I waited outside, watching the arrivals enter, dreading going in myself. I knew no one, of course, but noted there were a disproportionate number of women among them, covering the full range of the lesbian spectrum from totally-unrecognizable-as-being-gay to a few stereotypical “butch” types.

Just as I was reluctantly getting out of the car, I saw Estelle Bronson coming up the walk, alone, wearing an attractive but simple dark grey dress with a matching shoulder bag, her hair pulled sharply back. She seemed both startled and relieved to see me, and we entered the mortuary together.

We went up to Beth and her family, who were standing far too close to the coffin to suit me, to express our condolences. I introduced Estelle, whose face was calm, but whose eyes were clearly misted. Kelly, we learned, was staying with a friend until after the funeral and burial. Beth thanked us for the flowers, and pointed out two very pretty arrangements, one from Jonathan, Joshua, and me and one from Happy Day. I wasn't close enough to read the cards, so had no idea which was whose, but it didn't matter.

We then excused ourselves and moved to seats in the back of the room.

The atmosphere was a Sargasso Sea of funereal calm, with only a tiny ripple now and then, as if a pebble had been dropped onto the surface. An unreal calm—heavy and almost overwhelming. I'd never been to a funeral that wasn't.

I hadn't wanted to ask Beth directly if Jan Houston might be there, but I carefully looked at each of the mourners to see if I could spot someone I thought might be her. I couldn't.

*

Most of those from the mortuary joined the procession to the cemetery, and I questioned yet again why I had come. I'd learned absolutely nothing.

The grave site was near the foot of two tall, cylindrical evergreens standing closely side by side—I remember seeing a picture of that kind of tree in one of Jonathan's landscaping books and always liked the name:
Arborvitae pyramidalis
. They reminded me of very large, green popsicles, and I couldn't help but think of Kelly and Joshua, and a much happier
Popsicle Tree
.

As the crowd gathered around and under the canopy over the open grave, I stepped back to where I could keep an eye on just about everyone. Odd, but for someone who so hates funerals, I find a great sense of peace in cemeteries, and in reading the tombstones and epitaphs, and trying to visualize who the people were who lie beneath them.

While thusly distracted, I glanced past the crowd by the canopy to a tall tree about a quarter of a block on the other side, and noticed a figure standing alone, partly hidden by the tree. A woman.

I instinctively headed toward her, and when she saw me approaching, she started walking away. I walked faster, and slowly closed in on her. She wasn't looking back at me, but walking purposefully toward a lone, battered old car on one of the side roads that meandered through the cemetery.

“Jan Houston!” I called when I got close enough, and the woman stopped short and turned.

“What?” she demanded.

“I need to talk to you,”

“Who the hell are
you
?”

I took a good look at her as I got closer. Medium height, just this side of stocky, with short greying hair and large hoop earrings, wearing slacks and a denim long-sleeved shirt.

When I got close enough I could see her eyes were red, but her expression was defiant and angry.

“My name is Dick Hardesty,” I said, “and Carlene lived in my building. I didn't see you at the funeral.”

“
Funeral
?” she spat. “I wouldn't be caught dead at that bitch's funeral!”

“Then what are you doing here?” I asked calmly.

“I didn't come here for her!” she said, her voice still tight with anger. “I came to see Kelly. He needs me now.”

“He's with some friends of Beth's family today,” I said.

“And he should be with
me
!” she said vehemently. “
I'm
the one who was there when he was born!
I'm
the one who protected him and looked after him from the first. And then
she
…” she gave a contemptuous heads-up nod toward the canopy…” takes him away from me without a word. I come home from work one night and he's gone! He's
mine
, too, and she took him just because she's…”

His mother?
I thought.

She abruptly stopped talking and glared at me. “And what the hell business is this of yours, anyway?”

“I'm a private investigator, and Carlene was very upset when she got that note in her mailbox. It
was
your note, wasn't it?”

She looked away for just a moment, then brought her eyes back to mine. “Yes, I wrote her a note. She thought she was going to just take Kelly out of my life and I'd never find him again, but I did, and I just wanted her to know that she wasn't going to get away with it.”

“But ‘
You're dead, bitch
'? Threats don't come much clearer than that!”

She shook her head. “That's not what I meant! I meant she was dead to
me
.”

Nice try,
I thought. “Well, it sounds as though you were angry enough to kill her.”

She glared at me. “Yes, I was! But I didn't. I could never hurt Kelly like that, much as I hated her for what she did to me.”

“The police have been trying to contact you.”

She shrugged. “So?”

“So where were you the day Carlene was killed? I know you were on vacation from work this week, and your phone has been disconnected.”

She glared at me, not speaking for a full ten seconds.

“It's none of your damned business where I was or when I'm on vacation or whether I pay my phone bills on time,” she said defiantly.

“The police will want to know.”

“Fine. Let
them
ask.
You
just keep out of my face!”

And with that, she turned around and strode off.

Well,
that was fun
, I thought. I stood there a moment, watching her, then walked back in the direction of the canopy just as the gathering was beginning to disperse.

I said my good-byes to Beth and her family, and Beth thanked me for the referral to Glen O'Banyon. I started for my car, having looked around for Estelle Bronson without seeing her, so thought she'd already left. But as I was walking away, I heard my name being called and turned to see Estelle hurrying up to me, opening her shoulder bag. She'd obviously been crying.

She handed me an envelope. “Here is the signed contract, and a check for your retainer.” She also withdrew a tissue, which she dabbed under her nose. “I was going to give it to Jonathan this afternoon if I got back in time, but since you're here….”

I took it with thanks.

“Was that Jan you were talking to? I saw you go over to her.”

“Yes.”

“Did she tell you anything?”

“Not really…not that I expected her to under the circumstances. She seems quite upset, which isn't surprising. I may try to talk with her again, later.”

She nodded, then closed her bag.

“Oh, and I must ask you again to please not mention anything about our…arrangement…to Bonnie. She simply would not understand.”

“I won't,” I promised.

I walked her to her car, then returned to my own and headed for home.

*