The Popsicle Tree (9 page)

After dinner, during which Joshua asked at least sixteen times where his mommy and daddy were and when they were coming back, Jonathan asked him to help do the dishes. He gave both Joshua and me a dishtowel. I got the breakables, and Joshua got the silverware, one piece at a time.

Samuel and Sheryl called from the motel they'd stopped at for the night. They told Jonathan they'd be in L.A. late the next day, and would catch their flight for Hawaii early Wednesday morning. Jonathan then put Joshua on, who, I must say, was rather casual about the whole thing. He talked to both his parents, answering their questions with a brief “yes” or “no,” and wanting to know when they were coming back. Then Joshua said, “Okay,” and handed the phone back to Jonathan while he went back to his toys. Jonathan assured them that everything was going along just fine, but did not mention Carlene's death.

At eight fifteen, Jonathan said, “Okay, Joshua, why don't we put your toys away now and get ready for bed, and then Uncle Dick and I will read you a story!”

“I want to play!” Joshua proclaimed, though he was obviously slowing down after his busy day.

“All right,” Jonathan said, “but if you play now there won't be time for a story later.”

“I want a story too.”

“Sorry. One or the other—play or story. Which'll it be?”

Pouting, Joshua began throwing his toys into the toy box, causing Jonathan to go over to him.

“Let's
put
them in so they don't break,” he said, leaning down to help.

When they'd finished, Jonathan held out his hand and led Joshua into the bathroom to brush his teeth.

*

By mutual unspoken agreement, Jonathan and I didn't talk much about Carlene or Kelly, other than Jonathan's concerns about Kelly having to be in foster care until Carlene's sister could be notified.

“He could stay with us until then,” he said, though he knew even as he said it that would probably not be possible. I assured him I would check with the police in the morning and find out what was going on.

*

Jonathan got up forty-five minutes early to shower and get dressed in time to get Joshua up and ready to go. While Jonathan was getting dressed, I got up and put on my robe, volunteering to get breakfast ready while he saw to Joshua. Normally, in the morning, I'd just run around the house in my shorts, but in honor of company—albeit four-year-old company—I went with the robe.

Only eight more days,
I told myself.

Luckily, Happy Day was only a few blocks out of Jonathan's normal route to work, so we all (including Bunny and G.I. Joe to keep Joshua occupied on the ride) left at the same time.

When I got to the office, I checked the paper to see if there was anything in there about Carlene's death, and there was. Page 2, lower left section:

Hit-and-Run Kills Woman

A 32-year-old woman was struck and killed by a hit-and-run driver Monday in front of her office at 3433 Glenlee Boulevard. Witnesses described a late model white Ford van. The vehicle, which had been reported stolen Sunday night, was found abandoned three blocks from the scene. The victim, Carlene DeNuncio, was a single mother of a young son. Anyone having information on the vehicle or its driver is asked to notify the police.

I put the paper aside without finishing it and picked up the phone.

“Officer Gresham.”

“Marty, hi! It's Dick Hardesty.”

“Dick! Good to hear from you…I think. How was your vacation?”

“A long story. We'll have to get together for lunch one of these days.”

“That'd be great. So
am
I glad to hear from you or not? What's up?”

I told him about Carlene, about the note, and about her being followed by a private investigator.

“A private investigator? Which one, do you know?”

I was a bit puzzled. “Yeah, a Frank Santorini. Why do you ask?”

A short pause, then, “Because a Frank Santorini was found shot dead in his office this morning.”

Gee, what a coincidence,
one of my mind-voices observed casually

“Coincidence” my ass!
the rest of my mind chorused.

*

“Lunch one of these days” turned into lunch that same day, when Marty called me back and suggested we meet at twelve fifteen at Sandler's, a restaurant/diner close to the City Building Annex, where the police headquarters were located. Lieutenant Richman and I had met at Sandler's for breakfast or lunch several times when I was on cases that needed a little extra help from the police.

I was, of course, early, and on a whim stopped in at a bookstore a couple of stores down from Sandler's to see about getting another children's book for Joshua—he'd brought three or four along, but he, as his mother had said, knew them all by heart. I remembered the book Kelly had shown me, and asked the clerk if they might have
The Popsicle Tree
.

“Of course.” She led me to a huge section of children's books. She told me
The Popsicle Tree
was on the current bestseller list of children's books. I had no idea there
was
a best-seller list for children's books, but I took her word for it.

I bought the book and walked into Sandler's at two minutes till noon. I told the waiter I was expecting someone and ordered coffee. As I waited, I took the book out of the bag and began thumbing through it, admiring the illustrations. I didn't want to get too involved in the complexities of the plot which, I gathered, concerned a penguin who comes to Africa to find a Popsicle tree to take back to Antarctica for his friends. He is assisted on his quest by a monkey. Well, as I say, the subplots and intrigue were more than I had time to deal with at the moment, but, remembering how much I loved storybooks as a kid, I was sure Joshua would love it.

“Are you going to read that to Jonathan, or is Jonathan going to read it to you?”

I looked up quickly as Marty slid into the bench seat opposite me.

I grinned as we shook hands. “We're both going to read it…to Joshua.” I gave a quick,
Reader's Digest
version of what was going on.

We small-talked for a few minutes between the time the waiter brought coffee and the menus until he returned to take our order. Marty was looking good, as always; handsome as ever, but married life had put a few pounds on him. His wife was expecting, and he was excited about that, and he was preparing to take the exam for homicide detective. We talked for a minute or so about the case I'd worked on in New York, for which I'd had to call on him for a police report.

When the waiter came with our order, Marty and I got down to the purpose for our meeting—Carlene's hit-and-run death and the murder of the private investigator who, coincidentally or not…and I had the distinct feeling it was
not
—had been following her.

“What do you know about Frank Santorini?” Marty asked before taking a healthy bite out of his B.L.T.

“Not much, and what little I've heard about him hasn't been too flattering.”

Marty grinned, wiping the corner of his mouth with his napkin. “That's putting it mildly. Santorini was pretty much a bottom feeder. Cheating spouses, messy divorces, anything that involved digging up dirt were his specialty. I gather this would cover your client, Ms. DeNuncio?”

I shook my head. “I really don't know.”

I told him what Carlene had said about her relationship and breakup with Jan Houston and the note Carlene subsequently found in her mailbox.

“Jan was possessively attached to Kelly, and I can understand her being upset when Carlene moved out, but what she might have been trying to do I have no idea. She has no legal rights to Kelly.”

“How about the ex-husband?”

“There isn't any. The guy who got her pregnant thinks she had an abortion. He didn't want anything at all to do with a kid, and he doesn't sound like the kind of guy who would change his mind after four years even if he knew about Kelly. Carlene hadn't seen or talked to him since she told him she'd had the abortion.”

“Hmm.” Marty drained his cup and looked around for the waiter.

“Well, if you have any information on the girlfriend, we can check her out, but given the kind of people Santorini had as clients, I'd pretty much imagine his killer would be somebody he got dirt on rather than a client who hired him to find it.”

He had a good point. If Jan Houston, Carlene's ex-lover, had hired Santorini, what reason would she have had to kill him? Maybe Santorini's death was a coincidence after all.

I gave Marty Jan Houston's name, phone number—in case it had been reconnected—and the name and number of her employer. I also mentioned Carlene's sister, Beth—though I had no idea of her last name—in case she might know something.

The waiter returned to refill our coffee and remove our plates. He asked if we wanted dessert, but we declined and asked for the check, which I intended to pay, but Marty grabbed for it when it arrived.

“You've got another mouth to feed at home,” as he put it.

But I wouldn't let him (“And you've got one on the way,” I countered), so we ended up going Dutch.

We shook hands outside the restaurant, and I said, “Let me know how all this turns out, will you?”

“Sure will,” he replied with a grin. “And you let me know if you come up with anything more.”

“OK. We'll have to do this lunch thing again sometime soon. And give my best to Lieutenant Richman.”

With that, we headed on our separate ways.

*

I returned to the office to find the light on the answering machine flashing, but there was no message. About ten minutes later, the phone rang.

“Hardesty Investigations.” I wish I had a nickel for every time I'd said it.

“Mr. Hardesty, this is Estelle Bronson from Happy Day day care.”

Oh-oh!
“Is anything wrong with Joshua?” I asked, rather surprised by how on edge I instantly was.

“No, no, the children are having rest time, and Joshua is just fine. I didn't mean to upset you. I would like to talk with you, if I could, about…another matter entirely.”

“Carlene DeNuncio?” I really didn't need the question mark.

“Yes.”

“Of course. How can I help you?”

“It's a rather personal matter,” she said, which immediately piqued my interest, “and I was hoping we could meet privately to discuss it.”

“Certainly. Would you like to come to my office, or…”

“Could you possibly come out to Happy Day…this afternoon, perhaps?”

My curiosity was building rapidly. “Yes, I can do that. And I can pick up Joshua at the same time, if that's convenient. I'll call Jonathan and let him know.”

“Wonderful! About four fifteen, then?”

“Four fifteen will be fine. I'll see you then.”

I called Evergreens, hoping Jonathan was working the yard rather than out on a job somewhere. Luck was with me again and he was able to come to the phone. I told him I had to go out to Happy Day to talk with Estelle Bronson about Carlene, and that I could pick up Joshua while I was there.

“That's okay, I can meet you there. It's not much out of the way, and I've got Bunny and G.I. Joe in the back seat—I told Joshua that was his playroom on the way to and from school so he won't insist on getting into the front seat where he can get into trouble. But he can ride home with you, if you want—we can just transfer the toys.”

“Well, we can work that out later. I'll see you at Happy Day, then.”

*

Estelle Bronson met me at the front door. She turned out to be tall, rather thin, with a nice face and a friendly but somewhat sad smile. Probably older than she looked—mid-thirties—her long brown hair was pulled back, held in place by what appeared to be a large rubber band.

“Come in, please.” She let me pass, then closed and latched the folding children's gate across the door. We were in a formal foyer, with a polished wood staircase to the left, the base of which was blocked by another children's gate.

Directly to my right was what obviously had been the living room of the house, now set up as a combination playroom-classroom with children's desks and a large TV at one end of the room, and toys of all descriptions cluttering the other end. The walls were lined with low padded benches and bookcases, above which were several drawings in crayon and watercolor. To the left, partly open sliding doors showed a row of padded plastic floor mats with pillows and neatly folded blankets—probably the original dining room.

“Let's go into the kitchen,” she suggested, leading the way down a short hall to the back of the house. I could hear kids laughing and shouting, apparently from the back yard, which I could see through a screen door at the end of the hall. A Dutch door to the left showed the kitchen, and to the right a room set with two children's-sized picnic tables and a couple of highchairs.