by Dorien Grey
Four suspects, four motives, my mind went on. Larry Fletcher: jealousy and betrayal; Bernadine Press: company survival; Catherine Tunderew: revenge and a fortune; the Dinsmores: to keep their skeletons (whatever they might be) in the closet. Again, there might very well be several other prime candidates out there, knowing Tunderew even as little as I did, but these four would keep me more than busy for a while.
The only ones on my list that I’d not yet spoken to were the Dinsmores, and it was time I remedied that. How to do it I wasn’t quite sure yet, but I’d figure it out.
*
I must say that one of the benefits of being in a relationship was that it kept me from spending as much time as I normally would have dwelling on cases I happened to be working on at the time. And even though Jonathan spent a lot of time studying every night after dinner, there was still enough interaction between us to keep my mind from getting bogged down.
I got home to find Jonathan busy in the kitchen. I noticed he’d taken the fake grass out of the bigger aquarium and put it in the smaller bowl, apparently to give the four surviving smallest fish somewhere to hide—though what they’d need to hide from in there wasn’t clear. He was in the process of sprinkling fish food on the surface of the water in the larger tank, talking as always to each one by name as they came up to grab the small flakes—except for Phil, the one who had started all the trouble, but quite probably hadn’t been the only offender. Phil was still obviously on Jonathan’s shit list. He didn’t seem to mind.
Well, just having said that I didn’t spend all my time worrying about cases anymore, I spent most of the night worrying about this one—mostly about how to approach the Dinsmores. I finally figured it would be best if I could talk to them separately, if I would be able to talk to them at all. One of the most recent newspaper articles I had read at the library had mentioned something about Mrs. Dinsmore having an upcoming speaking engagement in Philadelphia at a conference on teen runaways. This coming Friday? It didn’t say if Mr. Dinsmore would be in attendance, but from what Randy and I think Jake had said, the couple didn’t do everything as a team, and that Mrs. Dinsmore was gone frequently. I’d have to take a chance that Mr. Dinsmore would be in town, though there was no guarantee on that. One way to find out.
*
I was mildly pleased with myself that I was actually able to finish reading the paper and do the crossword puzzle Wednesday morning before reaching for the phone.
“New Eden,” a young female voice answered after three rings. “Can you hold, please?”
I love questions like that, since you are inevitably and instantly put on hold whether you can or can’t. Luckily, in this instance I could. A moment later a click and “Thank you for waiting. How can I help you?”
“Is Mr. Dinsmore in, please?”
“I’m sorry, sir, he’s not available at the moment. Can I take a message?”
Obviously, and logically, the Dinsmores screened their calls.
“My name is Dick Hardesty, and I would like to speak to Reverend Dinsmore about a former New Eden resident, Randy Jacobs.”
There was no indication of recognition of the name when she replied. “Can I have your phone number, Mr. Hardesty?”
I gave it to her and asked if she knew when the Reverend might be available.
“I really can’t say, but I’ll see to it that he gets your message.”
“I’d appreciate that, thank you.”
I’d decided the night before, while trying not to think of the case, to see if I could get a closer look at Tunderew’s car, wherever it might be. Not much chance of finding anything given the severity of the wreck and the fact that it had ended up partly in a creek, but…
I also wanted to go back to take a closer look at Catherine Tunderew’s Renault in the repair shop’s parking lot. I figured that paint transferred in the accident would be pretty hard to find on Tunderew’s car after everything it had gone through, but some might have been transferred from Tunderew’s gunmetal grey car to whatever it hit. It was worth a look.
I called the police impound lot to ask if there was any specific salvage yard to which wrecks were taken, and was told that the city had a contract with Marv’s Salvage to take wrecks not specifically requested to be taken elsewhere.
I remembered Marv’s Salvage from that earlier case I’d mentioned, where a car had gone off a bluff and I’d found a bullet in the tire.
Not really expecting a quick response from Dinsmore—if he’d bother to call back at all—I left the office and headed for Marv’s Salvage.
*
Marv’s Salvage was just as I’d remembered it: same chain link fence beside the open gate, the same small parking area in front of the glorified shed of an office, beyond which stretched row upon row of smashed cars, pickups, busses, trucks, and huge piles of fenders, bumpers and twisted frames. All still both mildly depressing and mildly fascinating. I parked the car and went into the office, which still smelled of rust and old oil. The same battered desk piled high with papers, same battered adding machine. But nobody there.
Going back outside, I could hear the grinding of gears and the diesel cough of some sort of heavy machinery. Looking down the main aisle in front of me, I could see puffs of black smoke. Leaving my car where it was, I walked toward it.
An old end-loader was scooping up small piles of whatever and dropping them onto a larger pile. I couldn’t identify anything specific, just pieces of jumbled metal. I stood there for a full two minutes before the driver, who I recognized as the same guy I’d talked to last time I was there, saw me and shut off the engine.
“Help you?” he called down, without getting out of his seat.
“Yeah, I’m looking for a gunmetal grey El Dorado brought in recently. It went over a cliff on the road to Neeleyville a couple Fridays ago.”
“What do you want with it?”
I was pretty sure he’d never remember me, so I took out my billfold and pulled out my automobile club membership card.
“I’m an insurance investigator,” I lied, flashing the card at him, assuming he couldn’t identify it from that distance and wasn’t likely to get down from the end-loader to check it out, “and I just need to take a look at it.”
Apparently satisfied, he nodded. “Yeah, I remember that one. It’s down there…” he pointed back in the direction from which I’d come, “…next aisle over, toward the front.”
“Thanks.”
He nodded an acknowledgement, then turned the ignition key to bring the end-loader roaring back to life.
I found it—or what was left of it—with no problem. It looked like it had been made of tinfoil rather than aluminum and steel. The entire frame was twisted, the top squashed to about half its normal height, as if a giant had stepped on it. Only the rear end was relatively undamaged. The engine had been forced into the passenger compartment and it was pretty obvious that the occupants hadn’t had much of a chance for survival. The whole front of the car reminded me of a Pug dog.
I examined the front passenger’s side and noticed something very odd. At an overall glance of the front end, it was hardly noticeable, but up close…I swore there was a…well, an oddly flat section, as if the front of the right fender to just a couple inches from what remained of the grill had been stamped by something. The area was wrinkled but not crumpled as was the rest of the front and everything from about a foot behind the smashed headlight back toward the passenger door. As I say, it would have been easy to miss when just looking at the overall effect.
Catherine Tunderew’s Renault had a deep, V-shaped indentation in the trunk. I found it hard to picture the flat area relating in any way with the angled denting of the trunk. I crouched down and examined the flattened area very carefully looking for any traces at all of paint the cops might have missed. There was nothing.
Odd, indeed.
*
I’d been afraid, on the drive to the body shop, that the repair parts might have come in, and Catherine Tunderew’s ca
r would either be in the service area or gone. But luck was with me, and it was still where I’d last seen it, backed up to the chain link fence bordering the fast-food joint’s parking lot. I parked on the street and walked over to the fence.
The rear end was about three feet from the fence itself, but close enough so I could get a pretty close look. Nothing. Deep V-shaped indentation in the bumper and back of the trunk and even in the popped trunk lid. But all neat. No noticeable scrapes or scratches. Like some giant (maybe the same one who stepped on the top of Tunderew’s car?) had picked up the Renault and pushed in the center of the rear end with his thumbs. But absolutely no sign of gunmetal grey paint, or anything that might have caused the flattened area on Tunderew’s front fender.
Oh, well. Nice try.
*
On my way back to the office, I stopped at the diner in the lobby for a Caesar salad and two cartons of milk to take with me. And I thought again, as I waited by the register, how strange it still seemed not to see Eudora and Evolla, the identical twin waitresses who had finally retired after what must have been ninety years behind the counter.
I’d just sat down at my desk, pried the lid off the Styrofoam container, and unwrapped the plastic fork when the phone rang.
“Hardesty Investigations.”
“Hardesty Investigations? Do I have the right number? I’m returning a call from a Dick Hardesty.”
“Ah, Reverend Dinsmore,” I said, demonstrating the brilliant deductive reasoning for which I have become famous. “Thank you for returning my call.”
“And you are a…?” he asked.
Well, I’m a lot of things, of course, but I knew what he meant.
“I’m a private investigator, yes.”
“And what is it you are investigating?” His voice was a mixture of caution and suspicion.
“Actually, I was hoping you might be able to give me some information that might help me determine who was responsible for Randy Jacobs’ death.”
There was a long pause, then, “Randy died in a car crash. I would assume the driver would be the one responsible. But why would you think I would have any information that could help you? You really should be talking with Mel Hooper, our Resident Administrator. He knows far more about our residents than I.”
“But Randy Jacobs worked in the office in your home, I understand.”
There was a pause, then a cautious, “Yes, he did. What relevance might that have?”
I let that one pass for the moment. “And you know who the driver of the car was, I assume?”
“That writer…Tunderew? The one who wrote that muckraking exposé on…Governor Keene, I believe it was?”
“So everyone assumes. Have you read it by chance?”
He gave a short, dismissive laugh. “Good heavens, no! I prefer to focus on the positive aspects of life.”
“May I ask how you heard of Randy’s death? His name never appeared in the papers.”
“The police contacted Mel Hooper, who told me. The police had found a New Eden identification card on Randy’s body. I still find it hard to believe he’s dead.”
“Were you aware that Mr. Tunderew was writing another book?”
He sounded a bit puzzled. “I suppose that’s what authors do, isn’t it…write another book? But I can’t imagine that I’d have any interest in reading it, either. But what does that have to do with Randy, and just what is it you think I might be able to tell you about him? I was truly sorry to hear of his death, but I really don’t know what you’re looking for.” A slight but definite shift in the tone of his voice told me he knew quite well.
“If you’ll excuse me, Reverend. I’m just a little curious as to why you didn’t ask what Randy might have been doing in Mr. Tunderew’s car.”
There was a long pause, then a sigh. “I assume by your question you are referring to the fact that Randy was a hus…a male prostitute. If that is indeed what he was doing in the car with Mr. Tunderew, I am deeply sorry to hear it. I thought Randy had put his street life behind him.”
Uh-huh.
It was my turn for a slight pause.
“Well, actually that was one of the things I rather hoped to be able to discuss with you…in person. Would it be possible for us to meet sometime within the next couple of days?”
A much longer pause, then, “I really don’t know, Mr. Hardesty. I’m still a bit skeptical of what you’re expecting me to tell you.”
“I’m not expecting anything…” I realized it was more or less the truth “…but perhaps I should mention, for what it’s worth, that I am gay, and therefore the subject of…Randy’s…homosexuality is not something I care to investigate or exploit.”
Apparently he got that one.
“Well, perhaps we might meet. Today is out of the question, I’m afraid. Tomorrow I have meetings most of the day, and then I must see my wife off to an out-of-town speaking engagement. Would Friday be all right? I have to be in town for a lunch meeting, but I could perhaps come to your office right after that—two thirty, say?”
“That’d be fine, Reverend. I appreciate it.”
I gave him my address, and we hung up.
*
A typical Wednesday evening at home: Jonathan sitting cross-legged on the floor studying, me watching TV. A phone call from Tim and Phil just after dinner, Tim verifying that Randy’s body would be cremated Thursday, and that we could pick up the ashes on Friday, and Phil suggesting that we come over to their place afterwards for dinner, if Jonathan thought he’d be up to it. As an added inducement, he said they’d just gotten a few new fish that Jonathan might be interested in meeting. I passed the invitation on to Jonathan, who looked just a little uncertain until I mentioned the fish, at which point he brightened considerably and said “Sure!”
Shortly after we hung up, Chris, my ex, called from New York on one of our frequent call exchanges. As usual the phone passed back and forth between Jonathan and me as each of us talked first to Chris, then to Max. The big news from their end of the line was that Max had agreed to be stage manager for a gay theater group run by a friend of his, and Chris was going to design the sets for the first production of the next season. They were both excited about it and Jonathan, of course, was immediately gas fumes to their lighted match. And when Max told us they fully expected us to be there on opening night, I thought Jonathan was going to run into the bedroom and start packing.
We’d talked about a visit to New York while Chris and Max were here for a visit not too long before, and Jonathan had, in his inimitably subtle way, been mentioning it every couple of days since. He’d never been to New York and was really looking forward to going, as was I, actually.
They promised to keep us posted, and we assured them we’d be there.
Of course, that shot the rest of the evening as far as Jonathan was concerned. The only way to calm him down was for me to suggest we might play a little impromptu game of “The Casting Director and the Chorus Boy.”
*
Marty Gresham called just after I got back to the office from lunch on Thursday.
“Hi, Marty. Any news?”
“Maybe. I just heard from the DeKalb County Sheriff’s office in Georgia. They said New Eden’s squeaky clean; never any trouble. But interestingly and probably coincidentally, though, they recently found the skeleton of a male between eighteen and twenty years old in a wooded area along the banks of the Chattahoochie River about halfway between New Eden and the city. Most likely the body had been dumped in the river somewhere upstream and gotten snagged in the brush. He had been dead probably three years. Forensics determined the cause of death as an apparent skull fracture, and dental records matched those of a missing kid named James Temple. His last known address was New Eden, but no one there seems to remember when he left or under what circumstances. He had to have been one of the original residents, though, because the Atlanta New Eden has only been open about three and a half years. The kid had apparently been working the streets in Atlanta before he
went to New Eden. Maybe he went back to hustling and met the wrong…” he hesitated, looking for the word, then apparently gave up “…what do you call them?”
“Johns. Same as with the female hookers.”
“Ah, thanks. Anyway, maybe he met the wrong john. According to the Sheriff’s office, Atlanta had a string of hustler murders at about that same time. None of the others linked to New Eden, though. I haven’t heard yet from Dallas. Just thought I’d let you know what I’d found. I don’t know if it helps at all, but…”
“Oh, it all helps. And thanks again.”
*
It occurred to me that if conclusion jumping were to be made an Olympic event, I could probably easily go for the gold. But I really had to try to hold myself back. Okay, so they found a body, and the kid…name? Name, damn it!…James. James…Temple!…had spent some time at New Eden. So had a lot of street kids. And he was a hustler. A lot of street kids hustle to survive. I wrote Temple’s name on a notepad, and I added the kid missing from the local New Eden…Denny Rechter. I’d be curious as to what Dinsmore might have to say about them, if he knew them at all. With as many kids as come and go at every New Eden he could hardly be expected to know every one of them personally. I might just be on a butterfly hunt, but it was worth a try.
Now, if something showed up from Dallas…
*
Thursday night being Jonathan’s class night, I thought I might take the opportunity to run out to Ramón’s and talk to Bob Allen. It was kind of a weak excuse not to stay home alone, and while Bob probably couldn’t provide any information on the case, he did know an awful lot about what was going on in the community. If there were any rumors floating around out there about New Eden or the Dinsmores, Bob would be the one to know it. I called to make sure he’d be there, and was told he would.