The Popsicle Tree (15 page)

“Come on. Uncle Jonathan's waiting.”

*

Joshua slept all the way home, and Jonathan napped. It had been a fun but exhausting day. There hadn't been as much suntan lotion in the bottle as we'd thought, so most of it went to basting Joshua regularly. I could feel the heat on my shoulders as I drove, and knew I'd probably be lobster red by morning. We didn't get back to the apartment until after six and ordered a pizza for dinner. There was a message on the machine from Samuel and Sheryl, telling Joshua how much they missed him. They confirmed that they'd be flying back to the mainland on Wednesday and should be here late Friday or early Saturday.

I had suspected that Joshua's long nap would merely recharge his batteries and turn bedtime into a major skirmish, which it did—complete with an Oscar-caliber tantrum and flood of tears calculated to melt even the most icy of hearts, and culminated by that absolutely sure-fire winner, “I want my mommy!”

When that didn't work, he fell back on a variety of stalling tactics and frequent use of Jonathan logic. (“I don't want to take a bath! I just
went
swimming!”) We—make that Jonathan—finally got him to bed by telling him that he could stay up all night if he wanted to, but that we were going to go into his bedroom and read Bunny a story and this would be his only chance.

*

As we were getting ready for bed, Jonathan suggested taking Joshua to Sunday School at the Metropolitan Community Church. Apparently Samuel and Sheryl were regular Baptist churchgoers, and Jonathan felt he should keep up the tradition for Joshua's sake. As a practicing agnostic who feels uncomfortable with any kind of organized religion no matter how nondenominational, I said I thought it was a good idea, but that I'd let the two of them go by themselves while I stayed home and read the paper.

Sunday morning, while Joshua “helped” Jonathan make breakfast by putting the silverware and napkins on the table and pushing the On and Off switches on the blender to mix the eggs—Bob and Mario called, inviting us over for a barbecue that afternoon, and we readily agreed.

When Jonathan and Joshua went off to church, leaving me to my newspaper, I was able to enjoy probably a full ten minutes of complete relaxation before my mind started throwing in random thoughts like tossing dirty socks into the laundry hamper. I'd noticed how the amount of dirty clothes in our actual hamper had seemed to multiply like rabbits since Joshua had been in the house. Thinking how quiet it was without Joshua led me to wondering how Kelly was doing, which dragged in Jan Houston and Carlene and Estelle and Bonnie Bronson, Roy D'Angelo and the guy who was seen abandoning the van that had killed Carlene, and…

Aw, come on, Hardesty! It's
Sunday
, fer chrissake!

*

By the time we got to Mario and Bob's, I'd pretty much wrestled my work-thoughts back into their cages and was able to enjoy the rest of the day. We introduced Joshua to Bob and Mario, and they introduced all of us—but especially Joshua—to the two most recent additions to their household, Butch and Pancake, two young kittens someone had left in a box in the alley behind Venture, the bar Mario manages. That pretty much took care of entertaining Joshua for the time we were there. I was at first a little concerned he might unintentionally hurt them, but he'd been raised around small animals and was very careful with them.

“Where did you get their names?” Jonathan asked as we sat in the back yard watching Bob putter with the grill.

Mario grinned. “Well, when I first went to pick them up out of the box, one of them hissed at me and swatted me with both paws. I named him Butch on the spot, though it turns out he's a she. Pancake's a boy, and Bob named him the morning after I brought them home. He was trying to fix breakfast and Pancake somehow got on the counter and knocked over a canister of flour. Scared the shit out of the poor thing—he shot halfway across the room in one bound, and then left a trail of flour cat-paw prints up the stairs and into our bedroom, where we found him hiding under the bed.”

I could read Jonathan's mind as he watched Joshua lying on the grass on his stomach, playing with the kittens.

“Don't even think about it!”

“What?” he asked with open-eyed innocence, but his grin gave him away.

*

Okay. Monday. New day, new week.
Now what do I do?
Which trail of breadcrumbs to try to follow first? It would have been one thing had Carlene been shot, or stabbed, or, well…
obviously
murdered. But I
still
didn't know for sure that Carlene's death was not an accident. Neither did the police, of course, which is why it was largely up to me to find out.

I wished I knew how to get in touch with Roy D'Angelo, or even his mother. They might be able to point me in some sort of direction. The more I thought of Jan Houston, the less likely I was to consider her a number-one suspect, despite having caught her in the lie about where she was the day Carlene was killed.

My gut still told me there was some sort of connection between Carlene's death and that of Frank Santorini, about whom there was no question that he'd been murdered. Bonnie Bronson's name kept weaving its way in and out of my “look into it” list of things to do. But for the moment, I decided to concentrate on Roy D'Angelo and, by extension, his mother.

After I'd had my coffee, read the paper, and done the crossword puzzle, I called Beth Erickson, Carlene's sister. I didn't know if she had a day job, but if she wasn't home, perhaps she had a machine.

The phone was answered on the second ring by a very young voice I recognized immediately. “Who's this?” the voice demanded.

“Hi, Kelly, it's Dick.” I doubted very much that he had the slightest idea who I was, but at least he had a name. “Is your Aunt Beth home?”

Just then I heard a voice in the background saying, “Kelly, you're not supposed to answer the phone, remember?”

“But I know how!”

“I know you do, dear, but we'll talk about it later.” Then the sound of the phone changing hands and then a very tentative, “Hello?”

“Beth, hi. This is Dick Hardesty. I'm sorry to bother you, but I had a few questions you might help me with.”

“About Carlene? I really appreciate your taking so much interest in us, Dick, but I have to admit I'm a bit puzzled as to why.”

I realized then that she had no idea Carlene's death may not have been a simple hit-and-run or that I had been hired to investigate the possibility.

“Well, this may sound a little strange, but as a private investigator I have a rather suspicious nature. And when I heard about Roy D'Angelo trying to get custody of Kelly within days of Carlene's death…. Please understand I'm not saying there's necessarily any connection between the two events, and I'm certainly not trying to drum up business, but I'd just feel better if I could rule out the possibility, however remote. While I didn't know Carlene well, she was a neighbor and Jonathan and I cared about her and Kelly.”

“That's very kind of you, but Mr. O'Banyon's office has agreed to handle it for us, and we have every confidence in him.” There was a pause. “What was it you wanted to ask me?”

“I was wondering if you might have Roy D'Angelo's address or phone number?”

There was a slight pause, then, “No, I'm afraid not. It may be on the legal papers, but I sent them to Mr. O'Banyon's office the minute I got them.”

“But as far as you know, he's still living in the Louisville area?”

Another pause. “As far as I know. But he didn't live in Louisville proper, I don't think. Saint Matthews comes to mind. I remember Carlene telling me he was living in a house his mother owned there. Why do you…” There was a sudden pause, then. “I know they haven't found the driver of the van yet, but surely you're not implying it wasn't an accident or that Roy might have….”

Not wanting to get her rushing off in directions she really didn't need to go, I interrupted her. “As I said,” I…uh…said, “there is really nothing other than the probably coincidental timing of Carlene's death and Roy showing up that might lead me to think that Roy was involved in any way, but for my own peace of mind, I'd like to follow through on it.”

“Well, again, I do appreciate your concern, and thank you for everything you've done.”

“And thank you for your help. Please tell Kelly that Joshua, Jonathan, and I said hello.”

“I will. Good-bye for now, then.”

*

It had been about five years since Carlene had moved from the Louisville area, and I had absolutely no idea if Roy D'Angelo was still even in Kentucky, let alone still living in his mother's house in Saint Matthews, but I thought I'd give it a try. I called long-distance information first for Louisville—no Roy D'Angelo listed—and then for Saint Matthews, where I lucked out. I wrote the number down, thanked the operator, and hung up. Not expecting that he'd be home—if, indeed, I even had the right Roy D'Angelo—I dialed the number. Carlene had told me he was a stock-car racer, but whether he was still doing it or, if so, if that was a full-time job or not I hadn't a clue.

The phone was answered after three rings, by a woman's “Hello?”

“Is Roy D'Angelo in?”

“No, he's at the shop.”

I didn't ask what kind of shop it might be, so I just said, “Do you know what time he'll be home?”

“When he gets here, I expect,” she said with mild disinterest. “Who's calling?”

I gave her my name, phone number, and where I was calling from.

“This about his kid?”

I did not want to go into more detail.

“Indirectly. Would you like to have him call me, or should I call back and try to catch him later?”

“I'll give him your number.”

I thanked her and hung up.

*

I was just getting ready to leave the office for the day when the phone rang.

“Hardesty Investigations.”

“Hardesty
what?
” the male voice demanded. The sound of a car engine revving up in the background nearly drowned him out.

“Hardesty Investigations,” I repeated, instantly irked. God, I wish I'd been blessed with patience rather than devastating good looks!

Uh huh
, one of my mind-voices said.

“Some guy named Dick Hardesty called my house this morning and wanted me to call him. That's you?”

“That's me.”

“So what's this all about? Are you working for the woman who's got my kid?” More loud engine noises. Either he kept a hot rod in his living room, or he was calling from a garage. I waited until it was quiet enough to make myself heard, then said, “No, I'm not.”

“Then what do you want? And what does it have to do with my kid?”

Mr. Personality,
I thought.
He and Jan Houston would make a great couple if she weren't gay.

“I'm looking into Carlene's death.”

“What the hell for? It was an accident. Who
are
you working for?”

“Who I'm working for doesn't matter.
Why
does. My client suspects the ‘accident' wasn't, in fact, an accident, and I'm trying to find out if that suspicion might have basis in fact.”

“That's no skin off my nose one way or the other. If it wasn't an accident, it was probably one of her dyke girlfriends.”

His voice was suddenly drowned out by the roar of the revving engine, which was muffled when Roy apparently put his hand over the mouthpiece of the phone and yelled, “Turn the fuckin' thing off a minute, will ya?”

There was abrupt silence, then, “So what do you want from me?”

Good question,
I thought, but forged ahead anyway. “I was wondering when and how you first learned you had a son, and when you decided to file for custody.”

“Not that it's any of your damned business, but Angelina told me. She read it in the paper.”

“Angelina?” I asked, thoroughly confused. “…and she read what in the paper?”

“Angelina's my mother, and she read about Carlene getting killed and that she had a kid.”

He calls his mother Angelina?
I thought.
Angelina D'Angelo? Now there's a name for you!

“So what made you decide to file for custody?”

“He's my kid, and I didn't even know he existed! She's dead, so now he's mine.”

He made it sound as though Kelly was a used car.

“I'm sorry, but I'd gotten the impression that you didn't want kids.”

“Who told you that?” he demanded, then continued without waiting for an answer. “He's mine, and I want him.”

“Are you still driving stock cars?”

“Yeah, so what's that got to do with anything?”