The Popsicle Tree (16 page)

“Just curious. We have a track here: Elmsley Raceway. Are you familiar with it?”

“Yeah, it's on the circuit. So what?”

“Nothing. Have you raced here recently?”

There was a pause, then the click of the receiver being hung up.

I guess Jonathan isn't the only one who could use a little work on his subtlety.

*

I must say, having Joshua around certainly helped take my mind off work. When I got home, Jonathan and Joshua had apparently just gotten in. Jonathan was in the kitchen unpacking a bag of groceries, and Joshua was busily transporting everything from his toy box in his bedroom, where we'd moved it, back into the living room. I went to the kitchen to exchange hugs with Jonathan and to fix my Manhattan. Upon reentering the living room, I had to put down my drink immediately to give Joshua his hug, too. I noticed he had a Band-Aid on one index finger.

“What did you do to your finger?”

The question set him off on a long story of his injury, which had a beginning, a middle, and an end, though not necessarily in that order, and there was something in there about Indians. I gathered it had been a paper cut, but the kid had a great future as an adventure writer.

During dinner, he ratcheted up his usual every-three-minutes question about when his mom and dad were coming home to every two minutes, and I began to realize that I was really going to miss him. And any illusions I might have had about Joshua's visit toning down Jonathan's enthusiasm about having a kid had gone out the window about two days after Joshua arrived. Jonathan had been having a ball playing “uncle,” and he was a natural at it. But I knew that the minute Joshua was gone, he'd probably start dropping Jonathan-subtle hints about our finding some way to get a kid of our own. And while Joshua had been a lot easier to have around than I'd imagined, I still was a long, long way from taking that next step.

*

Tuesday morning, my morning office ritual was interrupted by frequent mental replays of my conversation with Roy D'Angelo. I knew I was trying to tell me something and I finally zeroed in on it—Elmsley Raceway. The fact that he'd hung up on me when I asked if he'd raced there recently pretty clearly told me that yes, he had. And I wanted to know just how recently that was—though I could hazard a pretty good guess.

The raceway held stock-car races every Friday and Saturday night, and while I wasn't much of a racing fan myself, I did remember frequently seeing ads in the paper. Out of curiosity I checked to see if there might be an ad in the paper I'd just been reading. There wasn't, but then I seemed to recall the ads usually ran Wednesday through Saturday. I didn't remember, though, if they ever said anything about who was racing.

I could run down to the library and look through past editions, but thought I'd try just calling the track first. I looked up the number and dialed. After thirteen rings, I hung up. It was unlikely that anyone was there. Elmsley Raceway was located in Vernon, one of the city's less affluent suburbs, and I'd been to the track once. Not exactly the Indianapolis 500, so I assumed they probably didn't have someone there full time. Still, I waited about half an hour and called again. Nothing.

So the library it was.

*

I like libraries. They remind me in an odd way of cemeteries—very calm, very peaceful—and I am almost palpably aware of being surrounded by the spirits and words of people long since gone, but who have much to tell those who will listen.

I checked out the papers for Wednesday through Saturday of the week leading to the Monday of Carlene's death. Sure enough, in the sports section, which I seldom even look at, there was a quarter page ad for Elmsley Raceway's weekend races. At the bottom of the ad were two rows of small pictures of participating drivers in or standing by their cars, with their names—undoubtedly to encourage their fans to come out and root for them. And in the bottom row, third picture from the right was one Roy D'Angelo, holding a racing helmet, standing beside a car door with a large 38 painted on it. I had to squint to try to see what he looked like, but couldn't tell much, just that he seemed to be relatively short in relation to the car, had medium-long hair, and wasn't a bad-looking guy, in a definitely Bubba sort of way.

Well, I didn't think I'd be able to recognize him on the street just from that photo, but I had a better idea of what he looked like than I'd had before. And it confirmed the fact that he had been in town at least through Sunday of that week. Carlene had been killed on Monday.

Gentlemen, start your engines.

CHAPTER 7

With Roy D'Angelo now firmly planted in the Suspects column, it occurred to me that I really should make an effort to either rule Jan Houston out entirely or consider her and D'Angelo equal possibilities. In an ideal world, it's always better to have just one suspect to concentrate on, but I've seldom had that luxury.

So…get in touch with Beth and see if she'd be willing to let Jan see Kelly on some sort of scheduled basis. I really could understand Jan's position, and I couldn't imagine how I might react under similar circumstances. Problem there was that if Jan had indeed had something to do with Carlene's death, would it be fair to Kelly to let her back into his life?

This was Tuesday, and Samuel and Sheryl would be picking Joshua up at the end of the week. Maybe Jonathan and I could take a drive up to Carrington on Sunday and see if I might arrange to talk with Jan Houston. I knew Jonathan would probably be pretty down about having Joshua gone, so a little distraction might be in order. And maybe we could stop by and see Jared if he was there. I made a note to call Jared when I got home.

*

When I returned to the office, I tried the number for Elmsley Raceway again—obviously they weren't open on weekdays, but I've never been one to take “no” for an answer. To my surprise, the phone was answered on the first ring.

“Elmsley Raceway.” Definitely a male.

“Hi. I'm glad I found someone in.”

“Just doing some paperwork. We aren't officially open. What can I do for you?”

Yeah, what?
I hadn't actually expected anyone to be there.

“Ah, I was wondering how far in advance you know who'll be racing on a certain date.”

There was a slight pause, then, “Depends. Mostly the circuit guys set it up a month in advance. Locals can sign in right up to race night. Why? You a racer?”

“No, but I'm a big fan of Roy D'Angelo. I missed him when he was here a couple of weeks ago, and wondered if you might know when he'll be here again.”

Another pause. “Hold a second, let me look. He travels around with about four other drivers, and they're pretty consistent.” There was the sound of ruffling paper, then, “Looks like he's signed up for the tenth—two weeks from this coming Friday.”

“Great! Thanks, I appreciate it.”

“No problem.”

Well, the trip to the library hadn't been a total waste. At least now I had a rough idea of what he looked like, and knew his car was #38. Maybe Jonathan and I could go out for a night at the races, and I could arrange to talk to D'Angelo afterwards.

*

When I got home, Jonathan and Joshua were in the kitchen, and Joshua was helping to set the table. We were using the Melmac dishes, so Joshua was in charge of not only the silverware but also the plates, which he took particular pains to place in exactly the right position as he saw it. Apparently he had been practicing counting at day care, and as Jonathan handed him each piece of silverware, Joshua would count it aloud. When the table was set, he wandered over to the fish tank and began counting the fish. He did very well up to 8 or so, but then things got a little tricky.

Shortly after dinner, Samuel and Sheryl called to tell Jonathan they were catching an early morning flight back to the mainland and would be on the road the minute they could get their car. Jonathan handed the phone to Joshua, who was overjoyed to hear his folks, and set off on a detailed account of what he'd been doing, that we had gone swimming, what all he was learning at “school,” etc., and he probably would still be talking to them had Samuel not asked him to have Jonathan back on the line, too. Both Sheryl and Samuel took turns reassuring Joshua how much they loved him and what a good boy he was, and how eager they were to see him.

I called Jared while Jonathan was giving Joshua his bath and told him we were tentatively planning on taking a drive to Carrington on Sunday, if he'd be home. He said that Jake was coming up for the weekend, and they'd be delighted to see us. We made rough plans to have a barbecue early Sunday evening.

Bath over, jammies on, and the promise of story time luring him to bed, it still took Joshua forever to settle down, and it took two stories before he finally went to sleep.

*

I called Happy Day during “nap time” on Wednesday to talk with Estelle Bronson and let her know what was going on—that there still was no definite indication that Carlene's death had been other than an accident, but that I planned to talk with Carlene's ex over the weekend, and that I'd be talking with Kelly's father when he came back to town in two weeks. I also promised that I would keep following up with the police to see if they had learned anything new. I told her that if, after I'd talked with Jan and Roy D'Angelo again, I found nothing to indicate their involvement, we should discuss whether I should discontinue further investigation.

Wednesday being school night for Jonathan meant that I would be fully responsible for looking after Joshua, including putting him to bed—a prospect I viewed with some minor trepidation. My experience with four-year-old boys had until recently been limited to when I was four myself, two or three infinities ago. But I guessed I'd do what most adults do in dealing with children…wing it.

I called Jonathan's work and, on being told he was out on a job, left a message to have him call me. I figured we could save some time by going out to eat before he had to leave for school, and then I could take Joshua down to The Central to find him another children's book—maybe another one illustrated by Catherine Tunderew, since he got such a kick out of her pictures. Then by the time we got home it would be almost time for him to go to bed.

Good plan, Hardesty
, one of my mind-voices said approvingly, and I modestly had to agree.

*

All went according to plan…more or less. We went to Cap'n Rooney's Fish Shack for dinner, which Joshua loved because he could eat everything with his hands, and except for knocking over a bottle of the malt vinegar used for the chips (it had a squirt cap, which reduced the spillage to a minimum), he was very well behaved. Much of his good behavior was due, I'm sure, to his fascination with the huge fish tank in the center of the room. (He reported, after a careful count, that there were “seventy-twelve” fish in the tank.)

We'd brought both cars to the restaurant, since it was on the way to Jonathan's class. Joshua had ridden with Jonathan but, after switching Bunny from Jonathan's car to mine, Jonathan left, and Joshua and I were on our own. He insisted on sitting in the front seat with me, with Bunny on his lap, and carried on a running monologue largely having to do with his folks coming back and everything they were going to do when they got home…including, apparently, buying Joshua a tractor for him to drive to school, and….

We parked about a block from Bennington Books and, after a slightly heated debate on whether or not Bunny should come with us, we walked to the store—Joshua taking great pains to hop over every crack in the sidewalk. I suspect it had something to do with the fact that I had a four-year-old boy in tow, but I swear I've never been cruised so much in the space of one block in my life. My crotch was equal parts delighted and frustrated.

And I soon realized, on entering the children's section of the store, the naiveté of my assessment of the task of buying a small boy a children's book. He wanted them all. Every one—but only after taking each one down from the shelf and looking through it. And upon being instructed to put the book back, it inevitably went back to the wrong place.

I was specifically looking for covers in Catherine Tunderew's style. I'd pick a book off the shelf to look at it, and Joshua would run across the aisle to grab another one and bring it over.

“This is a good one!” he'd say, handing it to me. I'd put back the one I'd just picked up to look at Joshua's offering, and he'd be off to grab another.

A very attractive young clerk came over and asked if we needed help.

“Yours?” he asked with a very…uh…friendly…smile, indicating Joshua.

I returned the smile. “Just on loan. We're looking for something illustrated by Catherine Tunderew—we got
The Popsicle Tree
last time we were in, and he loved it.” I didn't add that Jonathan and I did too.

“Sure. We've got one right over here.”

I interrupted Joshua in mid grab for another book and ushered him in front of me as we followed the clerk.

We ended in a compromise. Rather than the one I'd intended to buy and the 30 or so Joshua picked out, we got three,
Lemon Pizza
,
The Littlest Tractor
, and
Bunny Tales
.